Lisa Kogan's Makeover: From Schmattes to
The rest is sort of a blur. All I can tell you is phone calls were placed, clothes were brought in, measurements were taken, and I suddenly find myself in a busy Madison Avenue shop aptly named Intimacy, where Dee (a.k.a. the Miracle Worker) ushers me into a dressing room, looks me up and down, declares me a 36 E (who knew?), and proceeds to fit me in every bra style ever devised. Now it's time for the body shapers. Suddenly Dee is Hattie McDaniel and I am Scarlett O'Hara getting my corset strings pulled till breathing no longer feels like a viable option. "My husband always helps me get into this one," she says with a Herculean tug. "Does your husband live near me?" I ask feebly. We settle on a lightweight little Spanx number called Higher Power. God may be good, but this higher power actually flattens my tummy.
The next day I walk into the office (though technically my chest arrives about seven seconds before the rest of me makes it off the elevator) and receive the following news from Polly, my unflappable assistant: "Adam stopped by." I hang up my jacket, grab a bottle of water, and reach for my glasses. "He probably wants to go over the schedule," I murmur as I click on the morning's first e-mail. Polly shakes her head: "He said he just wanted to look at your boobs."
All righty, then.
I walk the girls over to his place and am greeted with instant approval. "Whoa!" he says. "You're narrower and straighter!" I have impressed Adam Glassman, and life is sweet! "Your blouse isn't gaping at the bust anymore, and you've obviously gotten into your Higher Power. You now have a proper foundation. Do you know what this means, Lisa?" I know serving red wine with fish is generally frowned upon. I know Denny McLain pitched for the Detroit Tigers in 1968. I know love means never having to say you're sorry, but where this particular phenomenon is concerned, I'm clueless. "What does it mean, Adam?" "It means we can get down to business."
Business begins with Adam asking me to honestly describe my look. I think for a while. "Well, I guess I'm doing a second-trimester bohemian Greek widow kind of thing." He smiles—we've been friends for a lot of years. "I mean, I know the flowing earth-mother stuff just makes me look bigger...it might even make me look like I'm off to slaughter a goat in some weird religious rite—but I don't know how to fix it." I can feel my eyes welling up and my neck getting blotchy, but I forge ahead. "For starters, it's hard to look polished in these pathetic grandma shoes—where do I find anything even remotely sexy in extra wide? How do I find bracelets that fit my wrists? And clothes are so expensive," I say as my whine climbs the shrillness scale. "I've seen jeans that cost a couple of hundred dollars, not that they'd even fit me, and..." Adam nods in that way people nod when it dawns on them that they're trapped in a confined space with a crumbling crazy lady. "Take a breath, honey." He is calm but definitive as he slips me a Kleenex. "I'm way ahead of you."