My girls positively shine in any crowd. Their shoes are signed by Christian, their cocktails comped at The Varnish, they never suffer wait-list drama with Tracey Cunningham, and I'd be shocked if Scott Schuman would ever pass them on the street without snapping. Better yet, they read The Independent with British accents, Kindle like crazy, and fly through Sunday's crossword in the Times.
Happy hours with them are better for me than graham cracker and fudge sandwiches. Because for all of their smarts, shimmer, and brilliance, they turn into a bunch of spicy old men playing Hold 'Em in the backroom of some speakeasy when they're answering my Naughty Questions. I almost expect one of them to grab my ass and call me Sweets.
Last night, I told them it was over with my man. I'd asked him one of my favorites and he answered incorrectly. I couldn't possibly be bothered by a future with such a beast.
Would you rather make your fortune as a highly-paid but overworked doctor or a porn star who earned the same amount after only three movies? He answered quickly. Porn star, it was.
I expected a more dignified answer. I'd been waiting for a selfless, honorable declaration. I wanted soul that shook mine. And I wanted my girls to feel the same exact way.
Let me be clear; I've got nothing but love for porn stars, but I think I'd rather leave work every day knowing I tried my best to heal someone.
They called me every name in the book, from Pollyanna to Mother Theresa to Angelina.
"Think of all the freedom he'll have! He can stay home with your someday babies while you keep working and happy-houring with us!"
True. But I'm not sure I want a porn star watching my someday babies.
One of my girls was incredulous. "Three days of sex versus years of stitches? Do the math!" She wasn't alone. The consensus was orgasms over oncology.
My best waved my protestations away. "I'd just close my eyes and porn it out. Take the money and run to start a children's charity or adoption agency or just hand out hundreds on the street."
That tribe of mine. They always seem to sway me like a well-timed whisper. I left the happiest of hours feeling more porn star than physician. And if you ever asked my man about last night, he'd definitely tell you he'd been healed.
All photos via Bella 102.