One-up

8:30 a.m. Company parking lot.

You notice her confidently strutting on the sidewalk in strappy four-inch heels.
(You only wear flats because your husband is short.)

Her grapefruit breasts strain against her black stretch top, the alabaster-smooth cleavage rising almost to her chin.
(Nursing has reduced your breasts to the size of droopy nimboos. Even the most expensive push-up bra from Victoria Secret cannot create a cleavage for you.)

A gentle breeze billows her gauchos around her smooth calves and you notice her delicate toe ring glinting in the sun, drawing attention to her painted nails and smooth heels.
(Your toe rings are neither delicate nor pretty, but they’re fine silver and have a resale value – at least that’s what your mother said. Your last pedicure was two years ago when you went to India, and your heels have cracks in them the size of the Grand Canyon.)

She tosses her blond mane over her shoulders and adjusts the studded black belt accentuating her concave stomach, its shiny sparkles matching the oversized dark glasses framing her oval face.
(You’re afraid to color your thinning hair lest it all fall out, so you hide the grays with henna. You can balance a laptop and a cup of coffee on your convex stomach.)

You fall in step behind her, both of you headed toward the same building.
(She works with similar-looking women in HR on the first floor. You’re surrounded by gult IT guys in a tube lit basement.)

Her delicate perfume trails her, its fragrance reminding you of a lush forest with a babbling brook.
(You took a shower less than an hour ago, but can already catch a whiff of your underarms.)

Your eyes are drawn to the gentle undulating of her narrow hips and you unconsciously mimic the rhythm.
(You just know that she likes being on top and has the expertise to reduce a man to a gasping beggar with a slight thrust of those very same hips.)

She stops to retrieve a buzzing cell phone from her purse and that’s when you see it - a broad band of elastic peeking from the top of her gauchos proclaiming, “Hanes Her Way.”
(You smile. That’s why you only wear dress shirts that reach your derrière.)