Christy The Writer

I met up with my friend Jessica in New York City for dinner this week. Jessica is a born New Yorker, in every sense of the word, but has lived in Los Angeles for many years. She’s a writer, an actress (I promise you’ve seen some of her commercials), a stand-up comedian and one of my favorite people on the entire planet. She’s also tiny and pretty and makes me look like the Jolly Green Giant with a thyroid problem, but I love her just the same.

When I say Jessica is a born New Yorker, I mean she is outspoken and smart and funny and doesn’t take crap from people. She also shoots straight from the hip – you always know where you stand with Jess.

We went to a Mexican place and we were studying the menu when two incredibly tall, willowy thin women walked in. We’re talking very tall. And very thin. They were expensively dressed versions of Tim Burton cartoon characters and they sort of slithered into the restaurant, all swan-like necks and glossy hair.

“They’re models,” Jessica said. “Look at them. I know they’re models.”

“Should we have the guacamole?” I asked.

“You can tell they’re models – look at them.”

“It’s full of fat, I know, but I love it…”

“When I was younger I really wanted to be a model.”

“Screw it. I’m getting the guacamole. It’s not like I eat it all that often.”

As luck would have it, the host seated the models next to us. Jessica watched in fascination as they folded their forty-foot long legs under the table.

“How old do you think they are?”

I looked up, wiping guacamole off my forehead.

“Dunno,” I said. “Younger than us.”

Jessica gave a dreamy sigh.

“I would still love to be a model.”

“Yeah, me too. You gonna finish that?”

By the time the check came, Jessica couldn’t stand it anymore.

“I’m going to ask them if they’re models.”

“Why? What difference does it make?”

“I want to know!”

“You can’t ask them if they’re models, Jessie. Just mind your own business. Wasn’t I supposed to get refried beans?”

“Excuse me,” Jessica said to the 12-foot redhead. “Are you models?”

Two creamy-skinned faces turned to us.

“Yes, we are.”

“Wow,” Jessica said. “I have always wanted to be a model. Seriously. When I was younger I would have cut off a major body part if I could have been a model.”

Of course, that would have taken her modeling career in a very odd direction, but I let it go. The models were obviously enjoying her enthusiasm.

“How old are you?”

“Jess! Did you just ask them how old they are?” I was mortified. “She’s not usually like this,” I told the models.

“Shut up, yes I am. So how old are you?”

“I’m seventeen,” said the redhead. “I’m nineteen,” her companion added.

The dream I sensed Jessica had been harboring, of the four of us moving to the bar and spending the evening drinking cosmopolitans with such sisterhood and camaraderie that everyone would think we were ALL models, was gone in a flash.

We said goodbye to the models and paid the bill. After a moment’s quiet contemplation, Jessica suddenly looked up at me.

“Let’s go around the corner for cheesecake.”

That’s my girl.