The Virgin

Chapter Two - Lacy

There are a couple of habits from my childhood that I refuse to give up. One is my love of wearing headbands. I have thirty-five in all. Some are a little much, but most are your basic headband fare and are used to keep my hair out of my face, whether I wear it down or up, in a pony tail or bun. I like to look fresh and ready. Head bands help to always give the impression that one is put together, whether you just had a panic attack, just ran a 10K, or rolled out of bed and didn't bother to wash your face or put on deodorant before leaving for work. The other childhood habit I refuse to retire is talking to my reflection in the mirror. Talking to yourself in the mirror is great for: gaining confidence, yelling at someone you really wish you had the guts to yell at, or revealing to someone that you have romantic feelings for them and wish they weren't a movie star and dating a hot model so you could finally just be together.

Thus, when I get home I do both. I know I was feeling pretty good in the cab ride home, but as soon as I get home to an empty apartment—really, it's empty except for a couch and a lot of boxes I have yet to unpack—I realize I have no chips or wine to partake in and Jimmy is a rerun (apparently he is on vacation). Weak, Jimmy. Seriously? Vacation is for people who aren't in demand. It's called The Tonight Show, not Here's One of Last Week's Shows. Enjoy . . . or Don't. What Do I Care? I'm On Vacation. I haven't been on vacation since I went to chemistry camp in the 8th grade, and that was actually a hell of a lot of work.

So, I finally decide that Dr. Strong had something in his eye and didn't actually wink at me. I eat some frozen wontons that I picked up at Trader Joe's last year and embark on my version of double therapy: brushing my hair and changing headbands while talking to myself in the mirror. Getting it all done in one.

"No matter if you get the most important surgery of this decade or not, you are awesome. You have a life, despite what Mark says. Sure, it could use some improvements, but really your life is acceptable. Amazing, really. So if you don't get this surgery you'll surely get something down the line, making all the sacrifices, lack of friendships, lack of any one boyfriend, lack of sex or fun in general worth it in the end. You got this. Now, walk away from yourself before you undo everything you just said. Please, walk away. Please."

Walking away from a mirror conversation with myself is like leaving chocolate fudge at the bottom of an ice cream sundae. There is just so much more left to dig into.

BUZZZ! BUZZZ! BUZZZ!

I drop the brush and duck. Oh, it's my front door buzzer. I look at the clock. It's eleven-thirty at night. Someone is dead. I just know it. I run out of the bathroom and to my front door.

"Hello?" I yell into my intercom, trying to sound serious in case it's just a crazy person trying to get into the building.

"Katie?"

"Lacy," I spit out almost immediately upon hearing my baby sister's voice.

I buzz her in and open the door to the hallway. As I wait for the oldest elevator in Manhattan to transport my sister six flights, I realize I haven't seen her in an entire year. I missed Christmas, Thanksgiving, and the summer vacation in Maine she took with our mom and dad, because, well, I don't vacation.

My sister Lacy is twenty-five years old and the most naturally beautiful, free-spirited person I've met. She's kind of the exact opposite of me. Must be why I like her so much. When she said she was going to study pre-med in college, I couldn't help but be flattered. She was following in my footsteps. Her admiration for her big sister had turned into inspiration, and she wanted to join me in the fight against disease and premature death.

"Oh my god," she squeals, as she hurries through my open door. "I swear, I'll only be here for two, maybe three weeks." She's giggling now, twirling through my living room and adjoining kitchen. No joke. "We're going to have so much fun!"