Debut author Heather Estay presents a hilarious new novel best described as Sex and the City for the peri-menopausal set. When the post divorce dust settles, Angie's three best friends insist she needs to have a one-night stand into order to launch her new life by 1) unblocking her constipated charkas; 2) recapturing her essential feminine power; and 3) exploiting all of life's offerings. Even her daughter urges her to get a life. But the results are not what anyone could have expected, when Angie gets involved with a new man. Sure he's technically still married, but with Angie's help he's ready to put his unique divorce plan into action.

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It's Never Too Late to Get a Life
Angie's First Adventure

Chapter One

But the morning that started it all, when hitting the snooze-forever button might have saved me, was my forty-ninth birthday (the birthday that now ranks as my worst birthday ever, far surpassing even my fourteenth, when Stanley Jackson stood me up for my own party). For the past twenty years, my birthdays have been an exhausting marathon of Happy Birthday parties. Not because I have hordes of friends who are anxious to celebrate my "special day," but because I have three best friends who refuse to celebrate it together. Why? The three of them can't stand one another, that's why.

In all the years we've known each other, I can only think of three subjects my best friends ever agreed on: a) none of them have ever liked Bob, my now ex-husband, b) none of them likes each other, and c) all of them think I am a best friend worth keeping. That's it. I don't know why they dislike each other so much. But honestly? Though these women are as dear to me as my kidneys, they really are difficult to like, even for me, their designated best friend. Getting together with all three of them absolutely does not work. Imagine a party with Britney Spears, Sandra Day O'Conner, and Elizabeth Taylor. Maybe these women areinteresting by themselves—but together? (Granted, if Liz can be best friends with Michael Jackson maybe she can party with anyone. But you get my drift.)

So every year the day begins with a Happy Birthday Breakfast, then proceeds to the Happy Birthday Lunch, and closes with the Happy Birthday Dinner, each hosted by a different best friend. It's grueling, and extremely caloric, but unavoidable. And because obviously the favored time slot is the Happy Birthday Dinner, the Happy Birthday Schedule must be rotated each year so that no best friend becomes more best than the others. Sigh . . .

On this particular birthday, Jessica had drawn the Happy Birthday Breakfast, the least desirable Happy Birthday Meal, especially for Jessica since she is not a morning person.

"Angie, are you absolutely sure I was supposed to be breakfast this year?" This was said with less than Jessica's usual cheerfulness, a cheerfulness which at full force can rival Glinda, Good Witch of the North. She peered out petulantly from huge, purplish sunglasses, which covered her entire face.

"Yes, Jess, I'm absolutely sure."

She had chosen a pretty little café, sunlit with lace curtains and fresh flowers, sitar music playing in the background. So very Jessica! The place was packed and noisy as we headed toward the only available table, in the center of the room.

Even in her grumpiest morning state, Jessica sparkles like an ethereal creature from A Midsummer Night's Dream, never quite walking on the ground but seeming to float above it. Sunlight filtered through the wavy red hair that frames her petite, alabaster face. Those sunglasses hid inquisitive azure eyes, wide-set and deceptively innocent. Jessica is stunning, almost extraterrestrial, and incredibly unconscious of her impact on the awestruck earthlings she passes.

Being with Jessica always makes me feel heavy and clunky, though in truth, Jess and I are not too different in size and stats. Both about five-four, weighing in at 120 pounds, a pair of size fours. But Jessica is much more refined and delicate, an orange frappe to my lump of oatmeal. To top it off, despite being the proud grandma of three little girls, Jessica looks young enough to be in her late thirties. Me? I fall into the "well-preserved-for-herage" category.

After we were seated, Jessica reached into her big flowery bag, pulled out a set of oversized headphones, and put them over her ears.

"Jess? What are you doing?"

"Oh, these!" She brightened noticeably. "These are incredible! Don't worry, I can hear everything you say. I'm listening to sound therapy tapes. They filter out the lower frequencies and enhance the higher, which opens up passages to the cortex of the brain. The result, after a hundred or so hours of listening, is reduced stress, extra energy, and improved hearing. The woman who developed them lives in Canada and . . ."

I took a deep breath and smiled. Here we go again. Jessica had experimented with every lotion, potion, mantra, organic supplement, body discipline, and diet ("It's not a diet, it's a way of life!") created. She had been Zoned, Rolfed, and Feng Shuied. And every new experience was as "absolutely incredible" as the last.

I'll admit Jessica benefits from her experiments. She's healthy and looks fantastic. But every time I see her, she has some brand-new "fabulous" discovery to share. And once she gets started talking about her latest, she can gush about it nonstop for hours. Unfortunately, Jess possesses a particularly loud and shrill voice, a voice totally incompatible with her waiflike appearance. So her gushing is about as melodic as a child's first violin lesson.

But over the years, I've learned to tune Jessica out during her infomercials. It was pleasant enough just to watch her enthuse, like turning the sound off the TV. I figured this morning's monologue would run at least twenty minutes before I'd be allowed to get a word in. So I wandered off mentally, knowing I wouldn't be missed for a while.

I started thinking about a prior birthday when Jessica had just returned from the Burning Man celebration in the desert. She had shown me a scrapbook she put together with pictures of nude mud races, exotic art, and this guy with thousands of body piercings in places that really should not have been pierced. I think she told me the guy worked as a mailman, though of course our main conversation focused on the logistics of his, uh, doing certain things and how the person who, uh, did those things with him might experience it. I was floating off, wondering whether my own mailman had such intimate piercings beneath his uniform, when Jessica's screech brought me right back to earth.

It's Never Too Late to Get a Life
Angie's First Adventure. Copyright © by Heather Estay. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.

Excerpted from It's Never Too Late to Get a Life: Angie's First Adventure by Heather Estay
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