Free When Life Gives You Lululemons by Lauren Weisberger Page B

slightly panicked email to Miles, giving him the update, but she had no idea what time it was in Hong Kong.
    Next to her, the women had given up on trying to schedule a playdate. They had somehow segued into an uninhibited conversation about vodka-soaked tampons.
    â€œI mean, I’ve, like, read that the college girls all love it. But I can’t bring myself to actually do it,” the mom of Elodie said. She had on workout wear, head to toe: running shoes, yoga pants, a performance fleece, and a reflective headband, topped off with a down vest.
    Her friend wore a variation of the exact same outfit, only she had swapped out the headband for a knit hat with a massive fur ball on top. This woman—India’s mommy—leaned in and said, “Oh, it’s amazing. OBs definitely work best because of the no applicator. All of the buzz, none of the calories!”
    â€œWow,” the headband mom said reverently. “That sounds amazing. Have you ever tried tequila? I’m not a huge vodka fan.”
    â€œBut that’s the best part!” crowed the fur ball. “It doesn’t matter what you use—you can’t even taste it!And I haven’t noticed that any one type is easier on my vag than any other, so . . . as long as it’s not flavored, I think you can use whatever you have lying around.”
    â€œI’m trying it. This weekend. Wait—does that mean you would pass a Breathalyzer? Like, if no alcohol goes into your actual mouth, you should be fine, right?”
    Emily was about to respond—they were raging idiots to think that alcohol absorbed through their vaginas instead of their stomachs didn’t have the same effect on their blood alcohol level—but she stopped herself. After ten days in Greenwich, Emily had seen the same faces over and over again. Telling people off in her favorite Starbucks was probably not the best way to go.
    She glanced around. It was as though someone released a man-repelling chemical weapon at seven a.m. each weekday and didn’t turn off the spigot for a full twelve hours. The only men able to survive it were the ones older than eighty or too rich to even pretend to work anymore, but they didn’t spend their time in Starbucks. It was women as far as the eye could see. Women in their thirties, pushing strollers and chasing toddlers; in their forties, eking out every second before school let out at three; in their fifties, meeting for a cappuccino and a chat; in their sixties, accompanying their daughters and grandchildren. Nannies. Babysitters. The odd twentysomething who taught a local yoga or spin class. But not one damn man. Emily noticed how different it looked from L.A., where everyone was freelance and flexible and sort of working and sort of not. She missed L.A., but it was not missing her back. Olivia Belle had probably signed half the city by now.
    Her phone rang and flashed MILES .
    â€œEm? Hey, sweetie.”
    â€œHi. I’m so glad it’s you and not the bitch who just fired me.”
    â€œYou got fired? Who fired you?”
    Emily laughed. “Kim Kelly. In an email that wasn’t even intended for me.”
    â€œKim Kelly’s a cunt.”
    â€œI appreciate the sentiment, honey, I really do. But can you not use that word?”
    â€œWhat, ‘cunt’? Since when does that bother you? You’ve been in Greenwich too long.”
    â€œProbably.”
    â€œHave you always hated ‘cunt’? How could I possibly not have known that about you? I mean, my God, we—”
    â€œStop saying ‘CUNT’!” Emily all but shouted into her phone, causing Elodie’s and India’s mommies to turn and stare. “What are you looking at?” she asked them.
    â€œMe?” Miles asked.
    â€œNo, not you.” Emily raised her voice and said into the phone, “I prefer ‘cooch.’ As in, next time you want to get drunk, you should consider sticking