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Carla and I look ridiculous standing in line at Starbucks with our yoga mat bags slung over our shoulders like bindles. She’s wearing a mock Japanese kimono dress over a skin-tight yoga outfit which fits her tiny frame like OJ Simpson’s glove, which is to say it’s too tight. I’m in head-to-toe Old Navy because I can’t afford Lululemon.
We order lattés and Carla gets herself a Rice Krispie treat.
“I’m emotionally eating,” she informs me. “I’ve gained at least seven pounds.”
“Understandable,” I reply.
“My husband has a boyfriend.”
“Boyfriends are overrated.”
She takes an angry bite of her snap-crackle-pop and marshmallow solace.
“Don’t worry,” I assure her. “He’ll get his heart handed to him, and you’ll have your revenge.”
“I draw the line at hearing them have s*x. I’ve told Tim
