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change a thing. It rarely does. The only man I have ever known her to be with who wasn’t completely elusive was Jack. And that did not end well.
    I stare at the menu, trying to decide between a cranberry scone and oatmeal. “Not to change the subject, but are we doing carbs this week?” I ask.
    Deirdre is always one step ahead of me when it comes to diets. She got a head start, after all, growing up in this city where all forms of beauty maintenance start a good ten years younger than in the rest of the country. I remember how she came to college with some esoteric black soap that you had to lather your face with and then rinse off using exactly thirty splashes of lukewarm water every night. Which she did. Religiously. No matter what. It does seem, though, that the list of what constitutes the bare minimum keeps expanding from manicures and blowouts to Brazilians (judging by my informal poll in the gym locker room, there is not a single female pubic hairleft in Manhattan) and year-round spray tans. Nevertheless, I have always followed Deirdre’s advice when it comes to this sort of thing. She once admonished me not to wear gray because it saps the sexuality out of you and I never did again. She instructed me how to make up my deep-set eyes that are just a hairsbreadth farther apart than most people’s, something she convinced me was an asset though I had never even noticed it before.
    â€œI’m trying these seaweed capsules,” Deirdre replies.
    â€œI thought we agreed, no diet drugs.”
    â€œThey’re not a drug. They’re completely natural. They’re from Germany,” she emphasizes. The European origin adds to their cachet, much like this past summer’s rampant use of a certain SPF 60 sunblock from Sweden whose ingredients are not yet FDA-approved and thus has to be brought back from Europe, serving the dual purpose of announcing where you have been and that your skin is far too sensitive for any lotion America can come up with.
    â€œYou take three before every meal,” Deirdre continues. “They’re supposed to expand in your stomach and make you feel full. The only potential side effect, according to the box, is the risk of choking to death if one accidentally expands in your throat on the way down.”
    â€œThat would certainly prevent you from overeating. Do they work?”
    â€œWho knows? My stomach is so bloated from them that I couldn’t zip my jeans this morning.”
    I glance at Deirdre, who is, in fact, wearing jeans. White jeans. And looks quite thin. As always. With her lankiness, tangle of long, blond hair and strong bone structure, she has the kind of effortless style that appears unthinkingly thrown together and is impossible to deconstruct. Trust me, I’ve tried. But what works for Deirdre comes off as merely disheveled on me. I console myself with the notion that it is because at five-feet-eight she is a good three inches taller than me, though deep down I suspect there is more to it than that. “You have that hourglass kind of figure men love,” she has assured mewhenever I point out our differences. I appreciate her kindness but remain unconvinced.
    â€œThese are a different pair,” Deirdre explains. “My fat jeans.”
    I roll my eyes. “There is no such thing as ‘fat’ white jeans. It’s a complete oxymoron.”
    She ignores me. “I’m assuming this is a temporary setback. I’ll give it a few more days.”
    â€œYou didn’t answer my question.”
    â€œWhat question?”
    â€œCarbs or not?”
    She shakes her head. “Too risky.”
    We both order scrambled egg whites.
    â€œSo how are you?” she asks.
    I shrug. “Okay.” I take a sip of coffee, which manages to be both tepid and burnt. Deirdre is having green tea, two bags, and is feeling rather virtuous about it. “I hate this weather.”
    â€œTell me about it. I made the