Yesterday I spotted a beautiful woman from afar. As she walked toward me, the first thing I noticed, of course, was the long brown ponytail. Then I noticed her be-spandexed goddess-like physique. Then I noticed that she was dripping with diamonds. Never a fan of the spandex and diamonds crowd, I disliked her by the time she plopped in the chair next to me. My mortal enemy.
"Hi! I'm Aimee!" she said, shaking my hand.
Aimee was bubbly and charming, but she was clearly a trophy wife who'd never worked a day in her life. Being hot is her sole occupation. She does it well, and she is handsomely compensated for it. I later learned that she's a former Miss Pennsylvania. But as I said, she's actually very kind and affable, so eh, live and let live. Within five minutes of meeting her, I was looking at the photos from her recent wedding and pretending I was riveted.
I asked her about married life, and she was shockingly frank about her insecurities. She doubts her ability to be a good enough wife to keep her husband. The odd phrasing is hers. Maybe I'm a sucker for the honestly, but I felt sorry for her. Then she cut to the chase.
"What I'm most worried about is that someday, he'll trade me in. You know, for the proverbial younger model? Like, when I'm in my 50s or 60s?"
What do you say when you're thinking "That doesn't seem unlikely"?
I said nothing.
"But hopefully I'll have substance by then," she sighed, absolutely not making a joke.
It was insensitive of me to explode in laughter, right?