Eileen Fisher leans back in an Adirondack chair. Breathes in and exhales serenely. Takes a contented sip of iced tea. She smiles and opens her eyes. “I just want to simplify,” she says. “You know?”
They all nod in nourished agreement.
“Here we are, ladies,” J. Jill says. “Having fun. Here. We. Are.”
Lane Bryant sashays in. “Boop boop boop boop,” she says, jabbing her finger in the air, as if she’s making a series of hilarious points.
They all burst into laughter.
“Mmm hmmm,” Ann Taylor says. “Mmmmm. Hmmmmmmmm.”
“Bravo,” J. Jill says. “Bravo.”
“Free movement,” Lane Bryant says while doing a fluid dance. “Free movement in this tunic. Yow!” She tosses an avocado into the air and laughs huskily.
“That tunic is to die for,” Eileen says.
“My God,” Ann Taylor says. “The majesty. Of that tunic. Cannot be overstated.”
“But remember, ladies,” Eileen Fisher says, “it’s all about understatement. Understatement is the name of the game.”
They all nod in supple agreement.
“And bold prints,” J. Jill says. “When the time is right.”
“Of course,” Eileen says. “And you know when the time is right.”
“You know it deep within yourself,” Ann Taylor says. “When it’s the right time for a bold print.”
“You want to shout it from the rooftops: a bold print is on the agenda!” Lane Bryant yells, then does a little kick, and snaps her fingers up and down and side to side like she’s telling everyone off, but in a fun way.
“Let’s not go overboard,” Eileen Fisher says. She is now, somehow, lounging on a taupe sofa and draped in a natural-fibre cloth.
“The fuck?” Lane Bryant says. “Where did that couch come from?”
“Ladies,” J. Jill says, “I just had a vision of myself. I was wearing a simple wrap dress that is perfect for any occasion and goes with everything and can be dressed up or dressed down and is extremely tasteful and would never offend anyone and conveys a sense of flirty fun commensurate with my age, and—”
“Yes?” They all lean forward. Except Eileen, who is now sitting on some stairs fashioned out of driftwood, wearing tortoise-shell glasses, and reading a rumpled New York Times.
“And a handsome young Italian gentleman was twirling me away, as if in the throes of a raucous dance, in a garden, and I was laughing—”
“Like a maniac?” Lane Bryant asks.
“No,” J. Jill says, with an annoyed glance at Lane, “not like a maniac.”
“Like a baby person?” Lane says.
Jill sighs. “No, not like a baby.” She repositions herself in her chair. She smiles a knowing smile. “Like a woman who, and I think we all know what I’m going to say ...”
They all nod vigorously. Eileen puts down her glasses. Ann hugs herself and playfully nudges off her shoes. They join hands and form a throbbing circle, and all finish the sentence together: “Like a woman who HAS. IT. ALL.”
Then they spontaneously combust, and at midnight that very night, all women over forty are blessed with some kind of shawl or wrap-type deal that they find in their closets and that they all agree is very versatile.
