'The Package', by Marcia Friel
One night at dinner, I gazed across the table at my husband, admiring the youthful look of his dimples juxtaposed with his strong jaw. Our son, Greg, age 9, had just made a joke, and my husband, Andrew, laughed, his dimples puckering, his broad chest heaving slightly. Even after 10 years together, 7 married plus 3 dating, his smile still made my insides glow.
I fell in love with his smile first. It was the thing I first noticed about him at the luncheon for incoming college freshmen where we met. Those dimples and his straight white teeth. That’s what did it. I like a man with a strong set of chompers.
That night, watching Andrew’s smile with the small wrinkles crinkling the corners of his mouth, reminding me of how we aged, I pined for the kind of intimacy we used to have in our youth. It was a Wednesday night before one of Andrew’s frequent business trips, and we sat at a large round wooden table dusted with crumbs, eating our meal. Greg and our daughter, Lilly, age 5, flanked us on either side. Eating meatloaf, some broccoli, and the family’s favorite corn muffins, it was a typical weeknight with our precocious children and a homemade dinner they’d probably trade in for a fast-food meal in a heartbeat.
“Can you please pass me a corn muffin?” Andrew asked.
Feeling the need to break out of the mid-week doldrums, I picked up a golden yellow muffin and chucked it at him from across the table. Our kids laughed as their father caught the muffin well before it would have hit his plate. Andrew’s face had weathered, but his reflexes were still fresh.
“I see you’ve still got some spunk,” he said to me.
“I still got it,” I winked. He smirked and went back to eating. I tried to remember the last time we’d had sex. Maybe two weeks ago? Or was it more like three? I wasn’t sure. We’d gotten a sitter last week, but after we came home from the heavy Italian meal we’d eaten, we threw ourselves on the bed, unable to move our bloated bellies. There was a time before kids when we’d come home from a date, eager to share and explore each other’s bodies, but that seemed like a bygone era – gone like cassette tapes and touch-dial phones.
I remembered one date in particular where we hadn’t even made it home before the explorations started. We had been married a year or two and had gone to a party at a friend’s apartment, Simone’s. She had just moved in, so I brought Simone a cactus as a housewarming present. Andrew thought it was a stupid gift, but I tried to reason that Simone would appreciate it: It didn’t need watering. It was hard to kill. It looked pretty, and it would make the new apartment seem more homey.
Knowing Andrew’s penchant for making lists, I had appealed to his rational side. And it excited him. That and my shapely legs poking out from beneath my jean skirt. When we arrived at Simone’s, she looked surprised at the spiky plant and placed it on the windowsill of her new tiny, yet cozy bedroom. Following the three-minute tour of the apartment, Andrew and I wandered into the kitchen to grab a beer, his hand never leaving my waist.
The party was well on its way to brewing up a good time. With some people on the couch and a few others smoking pot on the porch, Andrew and I chatted with friends in the kitchen, red Solo cups cluttering the counters. Not too long into our second beer, Andrew whispered in my ear, “let’s go check out the bedroom.”
“We saw it, remember? On the tour?” I looked at him confused.
He rubbed my right ass cheek with his palm and said, “yeah, the bedroom, I want to see again how good your plant looks in there.”
“Oh, I see.” I played along. “You want to check out my cactus.” I nodded.
“Exactly.” He flashed me a knowing look, then smiling, his dimples accented the sides of his cheeks. He led me by the hand, the smell of beer wafting from every corner. We had never snuck away during a party. Even in college, we always reserved our displays of affection past hand holding to our own private rooms. This felt illicit. And fun.
After we squeezed past a small group crowding the hallway, Andrew pulled me into the cramped bedroom and shut the door.
“Look at that cactus,” I said, pointing to the only window in the small room along the side wall where Simone had stashed the plant. Inside the room, the beer smell was replaced by incense. Simone being in a new-agey phase had left a stick to burn in a censer.
“Yeah, it’s beautiful.”
Andrew didn’t look at the cactus. Instead, his eyes focused on me, lasering into my gaze. I remember we were standing toe to toe, me looking up as Andrew bent his head to meet mine. The intensity of his eyes made me believe I was the sexiest woman he’d ever seen.
“Better be careful so you don’t get poked.” I poked a finger into his belly, noting the hardness of his abdominal muscles. He grabbed my waist and drew me closer to him and started kissing me – first lightly and then more eagerly. I could feel his bulge enlarge as he lifted up my jean skirt to stroke my butt.
“Now I’m going to poke you, okay?” he asked. I couldn’t help but laugh at his corny pun. Even in those sensual moments, we always kept it light and fun. I didn’t remember the sex from that night, only that it happened. What I remembered most from that night was the feeling of Andrew wanting me so bad he could barely keep his pants on.
“Mom, you do want another muffin?” my nine-year-old son asked, jarring me from my memory. I looked sideways where he sat poised, ready to toss me a fluffy yellow baked good.
“No, I better not,” I said, sinking back to reality and thinking of the personal muffin top I already had protruding over the waistline of my jeans. I glanced at Andrew, eating his food, his smile gone, and the moment of nostalgia vanished as he scraped his fork against the plate in an earnest attempt to scoop up the last morsels of meatloaf. Clearly, my wink was no cactus.
A week or two later, when I spotted a package by the doorstep, I practically pranced over to it, eager to see the new outfit I bought online. Because Andrew was on a business trip and wasn’t scheduled to fly home until the next night, I planned to surprise him with something that would make him see me again, something that would cause him to devour me with his eyes like that night at Simone’s party. Since I had no prayer of fitting into the jean skirt I had worn so long ago, I needed something different.
My kids, nosy as always, couldn’t help bombarding me with questions about the package, a white plastic delivery bag, that sat on the step. “What’s in it?” asked Lilly in her best big girl voice, trying to act older than her 5 years by placing both hands on her hips and acquiring an accusatory tone.
“Nothing for you to worry about,” I said, picking up the box and unlocking the door.
“It’s never anything for us,” lamented Greg, giving Lilly a small shoulder shove before leaping over the flowerpot at the corner of the porch.
“What do you want to be delivered?” I shooed the children through the threshold, the plastic bag teetering on my arm with my water bottle and purse in my other hand.
“I’d like a kitten,” said Lilly. “Or maybe a polar bear.”
“That’s stupid. We can’t get a polar bear,” said Greg.
“Well, it sounds like fun anyway,” I said, smiling at Lilly and dropping the bag with a thump on the foyer’s floor.
“Greg, how about you? What do you want to arrive on the doorstep?” We moved into the kitchen, Lilly leading the way.
“Pez. Everyone loves Pez.” He retrieved a Ninja turtle Pez dispenser from the pocket of his backpack and popped the purple rectangular candy into his mouth. A month ago he had informed me that everyone in 4th grade, everyone who is cool that is, carries an old-school cartoon Pez dispenser in their backpack and pops Pez between classes like pills. Certainly, a different 4th grade than I remember where the only thing we were popping was our gum.
“Can I have one?” begged Lilly.
“No, Runt. Get your own.”
Greg turned away as she tried to grab the Pez dispenser.
I flipped through the mail and placed it on the desk near the kitchen, while Lilly practiced her ballet moves, trying to stretch her leg up to the counter. I turned to scowl at Greg taking a swig of orange juice from the carton in the refrigerator. He frowned at me and put the carton back.
“What if some art supplies arrived on the doorstep? You like to draw.” I was fishing for birthday ideas for the following month. Something besides more Pez.
“Mom, come on. I’m in 4th grade. Boys don’t draw.” I looked at his serious expression.
“What do you mean? Some of the best artists are men. Are you really trying to tell me Picasso didn’t like to draw?” I called as he sauntered away from me into the living room.
“He’s a painter.”
“Semantics. Anyway, some cartoonists still draw. You said you like the old school cartoons better than the computer generated, what did you call it? oh…bullshirt they make nowadays.” I followed him, picking up a shoe, a Barbie, and a dirty tissue along the way.
“Whatever. I just don’t have time for it anymore.” He sat down on the couch and grabbed the remote for the TV in front of him
“It’s fine if you’ve found other interests, but Greg, just be yourself. Don’t stop doing what you like, especially don’t stop to please other people.” I turned to put the items in their respective places.
When I turned to toss the shoe in its bin by the door, I spied the package in the foyer, and tried to hide my eagerness to open it. “Okay now, you two, you can watch one show before dinner. “
“Yay,” Lilly squealed, scampering toward the living room.
“Not Care Bears again,” said Greg, “I get to pick.”
“Only if you give me a Pez.”
That’s my girl, I thought. Always bargaining.
With the children safely engrossed, I darted up to my bedroom with the package. It felt like I’d just been given a new present at Christmas. It had been a difficult couple weeks with Andrew’s travel schedule, not to mention the nosedive our sex life had taken in general after the kids were born. All my hope of invigorating our romantic relationship rested in the contents of the package, and like an eager teen getting her first text from a crush, I launched myself into the bedroom and closed the door with a satisfying smile.
Plopping the bag on our king size bed, right on top of the rumpled covers (who has the time or energy to make the bed anymore?), I ripped the plastic open and shoved my hand inside the fist-wide opening, pulling out the new outfit. I had found the racy lingerie online after a few disturbing pop-ups while searching “sexy” and “sparkly” until I located a woman’s lingerie site catering to “normal-sized bodies,” according to the advertisement. After that night at dinner when I remembered Simone’s party, I decided that my sex life needed some pizazz or at least something besides my usual dowdy wardrobe choices. Most days I don the standard Mom uniform of jeans and a t-shirt, sometimes yoga pants, but who am I really kidding? I hardly ever do yoga. Most nights I wear a pair of old grey sweatpants to bed.
Maybe it had something to do with the fact that Simone (we were still friends after all those years) had pointed out the oatmeal laden stain on my t-shirt last week, but I felt this urge NOT to be what Oprah once termed a “slumpadinka.”
At the same time, rush ordering a sexy piece of lingerie was not my typical style. I hated to shop, unlike Simone who was a shopaholic, and trying things on at the store with pushy salespeople and fluorescent lighting that always seemed to make my skin look like an alien green did not appeal to me. For Andrew, for our marriage, I decided to try something new, even if it meant leaving my comfort zone of wearing gray sweatpants to bed every night.
When I held up the outfit, I gasped at the lack of fabric. After two kids, my body was not as tight as it once was - too many pizza nights and bake sale left-overs, not to mention pregnancy weight is a bitch to get rid of. And then there are stretch marks and added cellulite. For some reason when I ordered the lingerie, which I then realized was delusional, I thought the sparkles and the straps would distract from all the extra blubber I was carrying.
I held up the skimpy one-piece that probably would be more fitting for a Las Vegas showgirl and looked over at my reflection in the mirror above my bureau. Despite the advertising for regular sized women on the site, the outfit looked small and kinky. It was hot pink with a series of sparkly straps that held together a bathing suit like bottom with a little skirt over top and a bra with plenty of room for cleavage. On the website, it seemed to fit well on what appeared to be a robust looking model, which I then realized was really the work of professional photo filters.
I told myself this was what I wanted. Something different. Something with a little glamour. Maybe I overestimated my sex appeal. I considered that cramming myself into the outfit might just be akin to clutching a water balloon - when you squeeze one end, all the excess bulges on the other.
While still holding the lingerie and looking in the mirror, I could hear the kids arguing downstairs.
“No, give me the remote,” I heard Greg say.
“I want to make it louder,” said Lilly.
I poked my head out of the door.
“It’s loud enough. Listen to your brother.”
With my parental monitoring complete, buying me about 5 minutes, I decided to try the outfit on. First, I unbuttoned my jeans (not the size 6 ones hiding in the back of the closet that I was still trying to fit back into - the other ones) and let them fall to the floor. I kicked off my flip-flops and pulled off my t-shirt. Grabbing the outfit, I started to shimmy it up. It smelled like a rubber band but felt more like plastic – stiff yet bendable.
Once I hoisted the garment to my hips, I swayed them back and forth like I was competing in a hoola-hoop contest, while simultaneously tugging at the straps. After it was over my hips, I zipped it up my side, not without a little shock from pinching part of my skin in the process. It was tight. Feeling like a hippo in a tutu and afraid to look in the mirror, I flattened the bottom skirt part with both hands.
Looking down at my body, I still couldn’t find the nerve to look in the mirror. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath while questioning whether it was worth the risk, and I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. Despite the fact that I wanted to surprise Andrew, I worried that my new get-up would leave him blinded by my jiggly mom thighs that hadn’t seen the sun in ten years.
“Mom,” said Greg, knocking on the door, making my heart bounce for a second.
“Not now, Greg.” I stood frozen as if he could sense my anxiety somehow.
“Mom, the show’s over and Lilly’s doing cartwheels on the couch.”
“Well, tell her to stop. Just…um…offer her some fruit snacks if she sits still for just five more minutes.”
“Okay. Can I have fruit snacks too?”
I smiled.
“Never too old for fruit snacks. Can you do me a favor? Can you bring up my phone?”
“Alright. But I’m getting the fruit snacks first.”
I rolled my eyes at the closed door. Of course he had to assert his authority somehow. I jaunted to the closet and grabbed my warm, fluffy robe, draping it over my new lingerie. Still without looking in the mirror, I retreated to the door and opened it as Greg returned with my phone.
“What are you doing anyway?” he asked.
“It’s none of your business,” I said, snagging a fruit snack from his open packet.
“Hey!”
He flashed me an accusatory look.
“Like I said, never too old for fruit snacks.”
“Seriously, Mom. What are you doing? I mean, why do you have your robe on in the middle of the day?”
“I was getting changed. I just…well…I was trying some old clothes on. Still have to clean out the closets. Yours is next.”
I pointed at him.
“Nevermind.” He shook his head. “Can we play Mario Kart?”
I knew my threat of chores would chase him away.
“Homework first.”
“Darn.” Greg hulked his way down the stairs, head down.
After closing the door, I couldn’t help but laugh. All I was attempting to do was try on a risqué outfit for my husband. It wasn’t like I was planning an epic jewlery heist, yet it still felt a little naughty. My body tingled with adrenaline, but I still couldn’t face the mirror. Slinking off the robe, I angled the phone with my outstretched arm to capture my entire body in the frame and took a picture.
Trying not to look too closely at the image of myself on the phone, I wasted no time in typing the message, ‘How do I look?’ I knew Simone would understand and provide an honest assessment. In fact, I had told Simone about the package yesterday at the Moms’ Club bake sale after I passed up one of her famous brownies. It was about the greatest show of will power I had displayed all month.
Just as I was about to send the picture to Simone, I heard a loud crash followed by a scream and some crying. I have a theory that kids make varying sounds based on the severity of the circumstance. There’s a difference between the ‘someone hurt my feelings’ cry and the ‘I’m really hurt cry.’ I could hear Lilly wailing, the sound building as she screamed louder and louder. She definitely sounded hurt.
I fumbled with the phone, seeing my blurry figure in the picture but not getting a good look or even confirming I hadn’t cut off my head. Then, I scrambled through my contacts to find Simone’s name before pushing send as Lily’s screams echoed up the hallway. Agitated, I sprinted to the kitchen, holding my robe close to my chest. Lilly lay on the tile, cradling her wrist, a frying pan on the floor next to her.
“What were you trying to make? Scrambled eggs?” I asked.
“Mommy, it hurts,” she screamed.
“Let me see.” I hugged her and took a more careful look at her wrist. With no medical training, I could tell it was most certainly broken.
That night, we arrived home late from the urgent care, Lilly wearing a new pink cast. Besides a quick call to Andrew to let him know what happened, I hadn’t checked my phone or even thought to look for a reply from Simone. I tucked the kids in bed, and to my surprise, was lenient with Greg after he told me the truth about what happened.
Using the stool to hoist herself, Lilly had climbed up on the counter after Greg refused to get her a cup. She had wanted to get some water from the refrigerator’s dispenser. When Greg saw her up there, he dared her to jump down like a superhero. He even told her she could be “Fry Girl” if she did it holding a frying pan, passing her one from the nearby drying rack. Needless to say, her dismount was unsuccessful and “Fry Girl” became “Cry Girl” after Lilly broke her wrist by landing on the side of the frying pan.
I thought about Andrew as I lay in bed alone. I missed his calming presence. He frequently traveled for work, more so due to a new promotion causing our time together, especially our intimacy, to diminish. The burdens of life and raising kids seemed to suck all the fun out of what used to be a playful relationship that at one time I believed could rival any rom-com duo.
I tossed to my other side, anxious about the broken arm and how I hadn’t kept my baby safe. Instead, I was playing dress up like a desperate showgirl. Plus, I worried about Greg and how I could help him figure out his interests beyond Pez and TV.
The next morning, I slept in until as late as I could, one side of the bed cold from Andrew’s absence. When I finally heard the jangling of breakfast bowls and spoons, I put on a pair of yoga pants and another slouchy t-shirt to meet the kids at the kitchen table. As I stopped at the coffee maker to start a pot, Lilly ran up to me, lipstick smeared around her mouth, two bangles jangling on her healthy wrist and a beaded necklace she used for dress-up draping her neck.
“What’s with all the accessories? And you know you aren’t supposed to play in my make-up.”
I started the coffee pot.
“Mom, I want to look nice for picture day, and I look ugly with this thing.” She indicated the cast.
While wiping her face with a tissue, I said, “It will be alright. You don’t need all the bracelets and the necklace. And you certainly don’t need makeup.”
“They only photograph you from the waist up anyway. You might not see the cast,” Greg added and then slurped the last bit of milk from his bowl.
“Do I have to go?” Lilly asked, looking up at me, begging with her eyes.
“Yes, Honey. You need to face your fears.” I stopped for a second after considering last night’s mishap.
“Maybe not your fear of jumping off of things, but it’s okay if the cast gets in the picture.” I squatted down to be eye level with her. “It’s part of who you are. At least for the next 6-8 weeks. And you’re beautiful without all this jewelry and make-up. Just be yourself.”
Lilly crossed her arms as best she could with the stiff cast, her face twisted in disgust.
“Everyone will laugh. This cast is ugly.”
“No, Honey.” I hugged her. “Who cares what others think?”
I kept my arm around her to console her, but Lilly continued to cry.
“Here, let me help,” said Greg, coming over to us.
He picked up a black sharpie from the kitchen desk and proceeded to draw a polar bear cartoon on Lilly’s cast. It consisted of three scenes in which a princely polar bear searches for his polar bear princess. After he finished, Lilly looked down and laughed. She managed a little smile and wiped her eye with the back of her good hand. I couldn’t believe how quickly Greg managed to draw the scene, and it warmed my heart to see how he comforted her.
“That’s some great work you did there,” I said.
“Mom, don’t make a big thing out of it,” said Greg, shrugging.
I headed to the gym after dropping the kids off at school. As you might have guessed by now, I hadn’t been to the gym, well, in months. With the prospect of wearing the new skimpy outfit to seduce Andrew, I decided to get some cardio in. Five minutes on the treadmill and I looked like a dog panting in a heat wave. I stopped and bent over, trying to catch my breath, the air feeling like dry crackers going down my throat.
It wasn’t until my stomach revolted by making me throw up in my mouth a little while doing some crunches that I wondered why Simone hadn’t gotten back to me. I decided to call it quits and checked my phone in the locker room. That’s when I realized I’d missed 5 calls from Andrew. He hadn’t paid me that much attention to me since our honeymoon.
I quickly dialed Andrews number, and he answered sounding rushed. “I’m on my way to a meeting but I had a question. Did you send some racy pictures to our old contractor, Simon?”
“Simon?” I said confused. I hadn’t contacted that guy in years after he’d done work on our back porch. It didn’t make sense.
And then I remembered the picture and my frantic attempt to send it to Simone all while Lilly screamed from downstairs. I hadn’t actually sent the picture to Simone. I must have pushed the wrong contact. Simon, the one name above Simone. “It was an accident. I didn’t mean to. I was…” I tried to explain, the words getting jumbled in my mouth.
“Okay, never mind.” Andrew cut me off. “I have to go. We can talk about this later. See you tonight.” He hung up. I tried to call him back, to explain some more, but the call went to voicemail. Deflated, my arms fell limp by my sides – and I hadn’t even done any push-ups.
So far, my two goals – one to help my kids reach their potential and the other - to seduce my husband - were a disaster. Not to mention, I was a sweaty mess who felt no closer to the glam girl I was attempting to portray.
At school pick-up, I spotted Greg first, strolling onto the sidewalk in the bright sunlight. Still a bit remorseful after the accident with his sister, he walked with me to meet Lilly at the kindergarten gate instead of running off to the park with his friends. When Lilly saw Greg waiting, she sprinted to meet him.
“How were the pictures?” he asked.
She held up her arm.
“Fine. Look at my cast. Everyone signed it.”
“Yeah. Looks great.”
“Everyone loved your polar bear drawing.”
We crossed the street to the park, and Greg pulled his notebook out of his bag. He and Lilly found a resting spot under a tree where they sat and looked at it together. Greg showed Lilly several more variations of the polar bear prince he drew at school, including a castle and baby bears. They looked like they were in their own little hive, hunched over the notebook, oblivious to the other kids buzzing like bees after being cooped up in school all day.
Watching their exchange made me realize I didn’t need to do any more pushing. Greg would figure out his passions on his own. It just took a little arm twisting – literally – on his sister’s part. It also made me recognize that I should follow my own advice. I needed to be comfortable in my own skin. Confidence is an aphrodisiac.
By the time Andrew arrived home that night, the kids and I had already eaten half a pizza. When he came in the door, I greeted him with a big smooch. The kids hugged him and started giving him the list of what he missed; a food fight in the cafeteria, a lost tooth, and a tricky math test. Lilly held up her cast with a proud look on her face. Andrew examined it and wielded a sharpie from his bag to sign it. Greg smiled when Andrew complimented his drawings on Lilly’s cast. Even more shocking, Greg agreed to show him the drawings in his notebook. I let them bask in the company of their father and slipped upstairs to prepare for my personal welcome back party for Andrew.
I got changed and as I glanced in the mirror, I lifted my chin a little higher. There. I was ready to seduce my husband. I pulled on my fuzzy robe and waited on the bed, this time with the covers smoothed out for his arrival.
Once everything quieted down with the kids in their rooms, Andrew joined me in the bedroom. His dimpled smile gave me a tingle up my spine.
“Anything exciting happen while I was away?” he asked.
“No, not really,” I lied. He looked at me as he sat next to me on the bed. I could tell he meant to give me his full attention, meeting my gaze head on. “About that mix-up with Simon…”
“Well, I saw the picture Simon received, and I know you don’t own anything that sexy. It reminded me of one of those outfits women wear in Brazil’s Carnivale. I wrote Simon back to say there must be some mistake, my wife doesn’t need to wear outfits like that, she looks great, even in her ratty old gray sweat pants.”
I wasn’t sure what to do, come clean or pop open my robe. I knew I was silly to ever think I needed some wacky glittery get-up to entice my man. He loves me as I am.
I got up from the bed, dropping the robe in the process, and leaned over for a seductive kiss. Underneath the robe I was wearing the gray sweatpants and nothing else.
Marcia Friel's work has appeared in Mused: The Bella Online Literary Review and El Segundo Writes. She is an adjunct who teaches Humanities classes online for the City Colleges of Chicago. She lives in the Tulsa area and has six kids.