Charity Luncheon

I often laugh as to how much my life has changed in the past few months. Some of the changes are welcome but others are not. While I miss working I have reconciled (kicking and screaming) myself to the fact that I may not be able to find a job in Shanghai for some time. I began my day by gingerly sipping a cup of ginger tea, skimmed through emails, called my parents on Skype, researched yoga retreats in Thailand, shifted furniture about in the living room (third time this week), studied German, and skipped off to a Pilates class. The morning was busy but hardly hectic, hardly comparable to being in an office. Those days I gulped my coffee, scoured my agenda-emails-memos-deadlines-budget simultaneously, called clients and ran off to meetings, my heels clicking as I inevitably left papers flying in my trail.

After my class I met Cristina and May at a charity luncheon at M1NT, a posh (read-arrogant) members-only restaurant overlooking the Bund. The view was phenomenal and the six course menu seemed promising. There were six of us at a table and we were a bit surprised when the waiters served us the first course - three people were meant to share a plate and the portions were miniscule. Each course seemed to offer a smaller portion and although the food was delicious, we were left hungry, muttering complaints under our breath and wondering whether anyone would notice if we licked the plates clean. We finally ventured to ask for bread, however our request was met with apparent shock from the manager and we were politely denied in his I suppose the usual model-anorexic clientele only requests lemon water.

After consuming little food but 1.5 glasses of wine (Cristina is pregnant so we snatched her glass, ignoring her tears of protest), May and I began to critique the guests. Even though we also teeter on the edge of Desperate Housewives -ism, we can be very righteous and pretend that we are better than all the ‘others.’ However, most of the women were lovely and were also a bit shell-shocked to find themselves in positions similar to our own (had-great-career-but-accompanied-husband-and-cannot-speak-Chinese-so-job-is-impossible-and-will-have-babies-but-feel-very-lonely-and-searches-for-any-sort-of-social-outlet-and-activity-that-gives-feeling-of-self-worth).

Regardless, there were a number of women there who were very happy to spend their days meandering between the spa and restaurants, complaining about their drivers and Ayis, and ending the day with a shot of Botox and a cocktail on the side. I was quite taken by two women in particular who shadowed one another. When snapping their fingers to the waiter, they smiled but their features bore no expression and they looked away from the waiter and towards the manager, coquettishly tilting their heads in the hopes that their mini-skirts and Double D’s (not natural, might I add) would gain them access to this club. The manager approached the table and began chatting in a pretentious French accent that boasted a trickle of French mannerisms. Someone who tries so hard probably went to school in an American blue-collar suburb, had a few hidden tattoos and did not get a passport until age 27.

I could imagine them back in NYC linking their borderline anorexic arms (toned from daily classes with the personal trainer) and strolling to Jean George, their coiffed blond hair (perfectly dyed with the appropriate number of hues) intact, their Birkin bags swinging, Manolos clicking, and blackberrys ringing. They would lift their freshly manicured hands to re-apply lipstick at the window of Neiman Marcus, sighing under the weight of their jewels. The jewels are real but one should not worry since their jeweler on 5th Avenue would never think of selling them a blood diamond.

Every country has a group of women who are so wealthy that they can wear white satin on the soles of their shoes. However, as someone who worked in development, I do not care if such women pay full price for their must-have-season-fashion-hit-as worn-by-all-the-fashionistas-peach-colored Chanel suit or buy it at Michael’s Consignment Shop on Madison as long as they keep contributing to meaningful charities.

When we left the restaurant it was amusing (only slightly but I must be honest) to watch one of the two gum chewing platinum Barbie blonds maneuver a newly dug-up sidewalk and around fresh, huge piles of sand and stone that blocked most of the rest of it. She let out a visceral moan and gnashed her perfect teeth; her eyes rolled upward in despair as she clutched in rueful hands the hem of her skirt, frantically waved to her driver so that he would pull the car around the curb but he did not notice her. Or did he?