Above: photo from Sex and the City. I was not able to watch this series until several years later, because I was thirteen and thought HBO was for kids with rich parents.
On my vanity sits a jar of night cream. Most nights, the ones I can remember, I slather it across my face. This petite jar of overpriced cream is my nightly reminder that wrinkles are well on their way. I do, however, understand that an arsenal of beauty products will ultimately fall useless in the hands of time. Why else would celebrities pay thousands of dollars for injections and cat-like facelifts? The cream is just not enough. And for the record… that is totally okay.
When I met my husband, I was twenty-two and cellulite free. I would hear talk about a stage in a woman’s life when her metabolism gives up, and gravity drops her underarm skin down. I was still wearing bandage dresses from Bebe when a woman told me that when I hit thirty, I’d only be able to eat soup. Everything else would make me gain weight too fast. She told me this with sadness in her eyes—like she never appreciated solid foods when she had the chance. Like maybe out there, somewhere, is the cheeseburger that got away. Perhaps the hamburglar is to blame. These haunting stories of liquid diets seemed like a distant myth to a twenty-two year old with a Richard Simmons energy level and wrinkle-free completion.
Until one day, I stood in front of my bathroom mirror and wasn’t familiar with the tired reflection. When did this happen? I started to panic. I mean I like soup; I just don’t like soup that much. You know? Luckily, if there is one thing I’ve learned in my relationship with David—it’s that nothing brings people together like flaws. It could be a piece of food in your teeth. Feeling comfortable enough to unbutton your pants in the car after a big meal. Somehow continuing to wake up with the acne of a pubescent boy and wiry grey hairs of an elderly woman.
But what’s more important to me is that David recognizes that I’m funny. This way when I become grey and old and cute in the way old people do—he’ll still find me entertaining enough to hold on a few more years. It was in the first season of Sex and the City that captured my feelings on finding true love when Big said to Carrie, “But the thing is, after a while, you just want to be with the one that makes you laugh.” Now why this took Big six seasons to figure out that was Carrie, I don’t know. But I truly believe that laughter is a beautiful, beautiful thing.
Unfortunately for David this means I’ve become a broken record, “Tell me I’m funny. Tell me, damn it. I know one day it’s all I’ll have!” That, and of course, a beautiful set of dentures to eat steak with because I will refuse to eat just soup. These expensive creams can try to keep age at bay, but underneath the makeup and muscle, I just want to crumple up like a raisin with someone who accepts my flaws, and I his. I just hope he thinks I’m funny.
Tell me I’m funny.