Lisa and I have this game we like to play when we’re out. All we do is try to guess the occupation of the people around us. Sometimes we even ask the ones we’re talking about if we’re not in agreement. I don’t like that part, because I understand that not everybody is approachable. Also, after so many years in a retail environment, I don’t fancy striking up a conversation with strangers. But Lisa has virtually no filter and she really likes talking to new people (and subsequently challenging them to a debate). Additionally, she likes telling people she teaches kickboxing. But anyway, it’s a fun way to pass the time and speculate. We get it right more than you would think. I’ve played a version for years in my head everywhere I go. But mine is more of a first date/ just friends/ work colleagues/ affair/ married an eternity version. Careers typically don’t enthuse me. And you know what I see the most? People sitting across the table from one another, on their phones. Completely ignoring the person they’re with. This drives me mad. Surprisingly, you don’t see as much of it at the bar. Patrons watch sports on the TVs, or they’re engaged with the people around them, strangers or not. There is a camaraderie. Blame the alcohol or praise it; I know I prefer interaction however it comes about.

So yesterday, in honor of National Margarita Day, my friend Rhonda and I decided to partake. You know, in the spirit of the holiday and all 😉 We’d sat at a wobbly table at La Cucaracha for a few hours, talking about big things and little things, as our conversations are wont to do. We were making our meandering way out, she looks over her shoulder at me and says, “I think you should write a book of short stories that take place in a Mexican Restaurant. Like, tell about the people at each table in every chapter.”

And the more I thought about it, the more I liked it. So here I am.

Some will be true, some will be 100% fabricated. I hasten to say many of you will recognize yourself, even though I plan to modify names.

Installment One.

“Sometimes girls are so theatrical,” I said to Jennifer, absently dipping a corn chip into the never-ending bowl of salsa. I was watching a tableful of overly made-up, former Tri-Delt looking, trophy wives laugh hysterically every few minutes after one sleek blonde head would lean forward conspiratorially to share wisdom in a hushed tone. And then they would cackle. It wasn’t enough they were in the center of the room, they had to be the center of attention, too. One swept her mane of curly blonde hair over her shoulder before sucking the bottom out of her drink.

“Yeah,” Jennifer agreed, never looking up from scrolling Instagram.

“I bet, between the six of them, five have an eating disorder.”

“You’re probably right.” She was still hunkered over her phone.

“Do you even know who I’m talking about?” Exasperation was setting in.

She finally looked up quizzically. “Those obnoxious sorority broads over there. I’m sorry, I’m trying to win this cashmere scarf. I tagged you, I hope you don’t mind.”

I refrained from rolling my eyes. “Whatever. How’s your margarita?” Maybe I was jealous because at least the blonde bimbos had friends that were engaged in conversation.

Meanwhile, at the table full of blonde shrieking women:

“He thinks I don’t know. How could I possibly not know?” I sucked down a swallow of the green potion and idly wondered if they had any of those fun crazy straws I used to drink chocolate milk through.

“They never think they’ll get caught. It’s just like drugs. Or driving drunk.”

I knew we looked shallow to everyone around us with our two-carat cushion-cut diamonds and artfully highlighted hair. Jetting around with our spray tans to our tennis lessons in our top-of-the-line Mercedes or Land Cruisers. We were often the envy and subject of conversation wherever we gathered. I could spy jealousy at fifty paces. And who could blame them? We looked perfect to those who didn’t bother to examine closely.

We tried to get together every three months. Sometimes it was only a handful of us, sometimes a dozen or more. We used to even pretend to be a book club to justify our luncheons or dinners. But we eventually gave up the ruse. We’re here to drink margaritas and dish.

“I can’t eat another bite,” Annabelle sighed, leaning back from her chicken taco salad and putting a hand across her tiny protruding belly.

“Yeah, gotta get into that cheerleading uniform next month for homecoming,” Christy teased.

“Annabelle, you barely ate five bites!” Traci admonished. “You don’t eat enough to keep a bird alive.”

Lindsey leaned in. “Girls, I’m seeing problems with Ansleigh. She won’t touch any red meat these days…”

“Well, you remember we all went through that phase. A moment on the hips…wait–” Denise faltered.

We all burst out laughing. “A moment on the lisps, forever on the hips!” Cyndie sang out.

“But seriously. All I can get her to eat is carrots and celery and occasional boiled egg,” Lindsey continued. “And no dressing of any kind.”

“Have you heard her throwing up? Or found laxatives?”

“No, but…I just don’t like it. You know how vicious that coach can be, and we all remember those days. I would rather her eat and have energy and feel good about herself than think she has to stay tiny. Even I was never that small. I don’t know who she’s competing against. She’s the thinnest girl in her class!”

This was met with shrugs. We all understood the perils of being slender. “Maybe take her shopping and stop for ice cream. Maybe she’ll talk if you get her away. Or take her to Atlanta to shop for dorm room supplies, that way it’s not something she’s wearing,” I suggested. Valerie nodded.

And so it went, all of us sharing the latest. I knew in a few hours, pairs of us would be exchanging texts and Facebook messages, analyzing our visit. Women are catty, it’s no doubt, but we did need each other. And of course, there will be alliances between a few. You’re always the closest to those you have the most in common with. But it’s good for all of us to come together. Annual Christmas cards aren’t enough for relationships to survive. You need your girls. Husbands don’t want to listen to all the minutiae that make up our lives. Co-workers secretly hope you’ll suffer a mental break so they can move into your spot. And families spread gossip faster than a hooker spreads–nevermind. My point is, thank God for queso and girlfriends.