Bachelorette #1

"So that's your assignment." Suzanne slid her fashionable granny glasses down her nose and looked at me over thin pewter rims. "Should you choose to accept it." I took a deep breath and contemplated what she'd just asked me to do. Go undercover. Like I was James Bond or something. "I'm a married thirty-four-year-old woman-and a mother," I reminded her, just to make sure Suzanne knew exactly what she was dealing with. "The women on that show can't be a day past twenty-five." I didn't mention that they were also usually blonder, thinner, better dressed, and about as effervescent as Alka-Seltzer. "That's not a problem." Suzanne swung her Jimmy Choo stiletto heels off her desk and leaned in close to the intercom button. "Jody, send them in." The double mahogany doors to Suzanne's office flew open and a train of what could have passed for circus performers strutted in. An oily-headed bald man dressed in black from head to toe. An ungodly tall, dark woman whose foot-long Tootsie Roll of a neck was wrapped in so many gold chokers she obviously subscribed to the Mr. T school of jewelry theory. And a pair of androgynous twins with Clorox-white crew cuts-brother and sister, I thought, but wouldn't put money on it-who were dressed identically in acid-washed overalls and batik tank tops. "Sarah, this is the team who will be getting you in fighting form. They're the best." Suzanne gestured to the head of the line. "Rolf, master hairstylist, will turn that mousy brown ponytail of yours into a headful of chunky golden highlights Jennifer Aniston would envy. Suma, goddess of facial contouring, and makeup artist to the stars, will eradicate those sunspots and humorless laugh lines and give you a complexion even a baby's ass couldn't lay claim to. And with Toni and Teri, fashion stylists extraordinaire, you can kiss your spittle-stained T-shirts good-bye and say hello to this season's hottest styles." Suzanne swiped her index finger against the tip of her tongue and made a little hissing sound that I was sure was supposed to show how hot I'd be by the time they were done with me, but instead sounded like my current wardrobe going up in flames. How did she expect me to pass for a young, single woman desperate enough to go on national TV and vie for the Stag? I couldn't even stomach the show's first season. Although from its ratings, you would have thought the entire country had a personal stake in whether Chad chose Charlotte, the Southwest flight attendant, or Veronica, the actress/waitress from LA. I can only guess that Nielsen boxes are strategically placed in households where naughty viewers are tied to their Barcaloungers and forced to watch mind-numbing shows like The Stag as punishment. "See? You're in good hands-you won't have any trouble fitting in with the rest of the girls," Suzanne assured me. "But they're bimbos." I could have added, and I'm not, but I figured that went without saying. "It's a great assignment, Sarah." Suzanne raised her eyebrows and waited for my answer. "We love your work, and I'd hate to have to give the article to someone else." "Suzanne, I appreciate the effort, but don't I have to fill out an application and tell them all about me? Don't they ask for a birth certificate or something?" I wasn't quite sure how exactly the magazine planned to get away with this. "Don't you worry about that." She grinned at me and tipped her head to the side like she was keeping a fabulous secret. "Just leave that to us." * On the train ride home I laughed out loud. Me, on The Stag? How would I explain that in the Wellesley alumnae magazine: Sarah Divine Holmes, '90, recently appeared on The Stag, trading in her Phi Beta Kappa membership for a bikini, a vacant stare, and the opportunity to humiliate herself on national TV. Femme magazine wanted me to describe what went on when the TV cameras weren't rolling-the cattineO'Connell, Jennifer is the author of 'Bachelorette #1' with ISBN 9780451210982 and ISBN 0451210980.