By Ann Brown
I recently heard that an old boyfriend of mine is getting divorced after twenty-two years of marriage, and he is going to be paying his wife in excess of many, many, many thousands of dollars per month in alimony. I am heartbroken over this news.
I could use many thousands of dollars a month. I shoulda married him. Not that he asked, but still.
I would have made an awesome rich divorcee. I’ve planned for it my whole life. I mean, what young Jewish girl doesn’t stand in front of her mirror wearing a tiara and dream of divorcing a wealthy man some day?
As it is, I married for love. And money. Robin was the wealthiest person I knew in Santa Cruz in 1977. He made ten dollars an hour. I know, right? I slept with him as soon as I could, to get my hooks in him and stake my claim to that ten bucks an hour. I don’t want to brag, but I totally gave him ten dollars worth of sex that first night.
Last night, thirty-three years later, Robin informed me that we need to review his life insurance plan. We are old enough now that a life insurance cost-effectiveness review is in order. Robin took it like a real man as I talked out my options concerning his death and concluded that, financially speaking, I married badly. And Robin agreed.
We considered my ability to woo and marry the ex now, divorce him, get the moolah and remarry Robin. Robin played along like the gentleman he is, but we both knew it was a sham. I am simply in no shape to woo a man anymore. A blind man, perhaps. Who cannot determine shape from touch? I might have a fighting chance. Still, there is that pesky issue of my personality. Ain’t no Spanx for an out of control personality.
I didn’t want to harsh Robin’s mellow but, frankly, what he is worth to me dead is not going to get me far. By my calculations, I am going to need to marry a rich man within a year of Robin’s death. And to get myself in wooing shape? Fuuuuck. The fat farm alone is gonna be at least thirty grand. Not to mention the constant waxing. My undercarriage is a hot mess.
Being married rocks. You never have to shave your legs above the knee ever again. And you can let your weird skin rashes air out instead of covering them up. And you can wear Crest White Strips on your teeth during sex because there’s no kissing anymore. Honestly, I do not understand why anyone stays single.
But if I am going to have to go out on the market again, I won’t be able to let that kind of shit slide. Even to go to the market. Oh my God, it’s gonna be exhausting. I will never be able to catch a rich husband. I’ll be lucky to get a blind hippie with no hands. Who needs a green card. Wealthy men are so picky.
Question to self: are lesbians more accepting of women who are no longer willing to wax or kiss? Are there any super wealthy lesbians in Oregon? I don’t want to have to travel. Am I even in the running to nab me a super wealthy, hippie, non-waxing, no-kissing Pacific Northwest lesbian or am I just kidding myself?
Clearly, the only solution is to up the amount of Robin’s life insurance. But he is onto my game and now he wants to cancel it altogether. He wants to make Alive Robin as attractive to me as Dead Robin. Bless his heart.
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Originally published on The Seattle Lesbian
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