Well, I just got some bad news, so this post is probably not going to be as LOL hysterical as usual. I’m just warning you; read at your own risk.
The bad news is celebrity related, but you may be surprised to learn that my depression was not brought on by the announcement that Katie Holmes finally came to her senses and is divorcing Tom Cruise.
It has to do with another celebrity, Nora Ephron, who died this week. Nora wrote When Harry Met Sally, one of my many favorite movies. I am sad to hear that she is no longer with us, and I have said a Jedi prayer in her honor. But, that is not what has bummed me out, either.
As a tribute to Nora, I thought I should read her book about hating her neck. And, this is where I got my bad news. Amongst all of the cheerful information about turkey necks, chicken necks, and all fowl necks in between, Nora mentioned that her doctor had informed her that the decline of the neck begins at the age of 43.
I am 43.
Until this moment, I have not even thought about worrying about my neck, being more obsessed lately with my ridiculous vision changes, and trying not to let anyone know that the reason I can’t identify the rash on their arm is because I cannot see the rash on their arm unless they do me the favor of holding their arm a mile away. Instead, I tell them that I’m not a doctor, but it doesn’t look to me like they have anything on their arm. And now, they are going to die as a direct result of my vanity because I told them there is nothing wrong with them when they really probably have a fatal disease.
I used to think about my neck all of the time – back when I watched Ally McBeal, and the character Richard Fish was obsessed with the necks of older women, and could not be satisfied until he had touched a woman’s “wattle”. I used to think, “Hmm. I’m glad I don’t have a wattle. Because I am not at all attracted to Richard Fish, and I think I would have to kick him in the groin if he tried to touch any part of my body.” Now, in the last season of Ally McBeal, when Jon Bon Jovi was on, I finally found a character who I would have gladly allowed to touch my wattle. But, alas, he did not appear to have a wattle fetish.
Now, I am 43. And I am worried that Richard Fish is lurking around the corner waiting to touch my newly formed wattle. And, if he did that now, I would probably just sit down right there on the pavement and start crying because I have a wattle.
Or, because Nora Ephron died. Or, because Katie Holmes wasted over 5 years of her life on Tom Cruise.
It’s a sad day.