Mine Are Spectacular! Read Online Free PDF Page A

you do it,” she says to Kate. “Even my fingers are bloated.”
    Kate’s long, perfectly manicured hands make short work of the ribbons, revealing a tower of fancily packaged boxes, bottles, unguents and ointments.
    â€œWhat are they?” Berni asks, picking up a shiny silver tube and looking at it quizzically.
    â€œThat one’s the beeswax belly salve,” says Kate. “Really good for stretch marks.”
    â€œWow,” says Berni. “Terrific. You can’t imagine how much I need that. Or maybe you can.” She laughs and picks up another bottle. “And this?”
    â€œEighty percent pure shea butter. For stretch marks. Lavender belly oil, ditto. And my very own concoction of aloe with vitamin E and extract of tamarind root. Doesn’t smell very good, but it’s really great . . .”
    â€œ. . . for stretch marks,” Berni finishes.
    â€œRight,” says Kate happily.
    I look at Kate dubiously. “So which one of them really works?”
    â€œFor stretch marks? Nothing,” she admits. “But rubbing lotions on your tummy three times a day is better than sitting around worrying about the delivery. Oh, and Berni, I also gave you some fabulous lotion for the babies. Keeps their skin soft.”
    I thought that was the point about babies—they have naturally soft skin. But maybe without proper intervention, it’s all downhill after the first three months. No wonder I’m in trouble. I didn’t start using moisturizer until I was twenty-six.
    I pick up a pack of teeny bottles with graceful stoppers in the lids. “What are these?” I ask.
    â€œAromatherapy,” Kate says. “Keeps the babies stress-free. Want to try?”
    â€œStress-free sounds good,” I say, dabbing a drop of oil on my wrist. “Could use some of that around here. Next time, bring some extras for Bradford.”
    Berni looks up sharply at me. “Don’t tell me you’re having problems with Mr. Wonderful,” she says.
    â€œDefinitely not,” says Kate, answering for me. “No trouble in Paradise. Sara’s the happiest woman in the world.”
    I nod. She’s right. Of course I am. Bradford’s the love of my life.

Chapter TWO
    TWO DAYS LATER, I’m in the Harrison Hotel, which Kate has assured me is the chicest new spot in New York. I can see how the squiggly fuchsia sofas made out of poured cement and the wobbly free-form three-legged tables pass for hip, but I wonder why the dermatologists didn’t pick a place with better lighting for their annual “FIGHT AGE!” conference. The yellow fixtures make everyone here look like fugitives from the ICU. And when did “age” become a call to arms anyway? I’ve tried to Save the Whales, Save the Earth, and Save
Family Guy
from being cancelled. But this is the first time I’ve rallied to save my face from the demon wrinkle.
    Kate’s drawn a standing-room-only crowd for her keynote speech, and since I’m sitting uncomfortably in a backless acrylic chair, I think of offering my seat to someone older than I am. If only there were someone. The place is packed with twenty- and thirty-somethings who’ve barely graduated from Clearasil. Instead of fighting age, shouldn’t they be fighting to get into graduate school?
    Kate strides to the podium to begin her talk. She’s professional and charming, and the audience hangs on her every word. One woman scribbles notes on the palm of her hand—how good can that be for your skin?—and others have brought tape recorders so they can listen to Kate’s speech again and again. Maybe they’ll replay it when they’re jogging in the park, trying to lower their cholesterol. Though I’d worry that listening to an anti-aging tape is more likely to raise their blood pressure.
    For over an hour, Kate makes the case for the latest scientific breakthroughs that will eliminate brown