The Trophy Wife

I always joke that I am looking for a sugar daddy. When the cashier at the supermarket asks if I found what I needed, I always say something to the effect of, “I didn’t find the aisle with the sugar daddies. Are you all out of those?” (I know, I’m super hilarious. At least, I like to think so).

Yesterday, I got an email from someone from the online dating site I am on. The man was 71 years old and looking for “Women ages 18-60.” He wanted to let me know that I was “adorable” and “nice in his eyes” and wanted to see where “fate and our adventure takes us.” His profile basically said that he was rich and that money was not an issue. Ew. If the only thing you can “sell” about yourself is money, that’s just sad.

But really, I could never be a trophy wife. It’s just too much work. Ironically. Keeping my nails done and unchipped, hair perfectly coiffed, and face unnaturally wrinkle-free sounds like absolute torture. As much as I love shopping, I would likely get very bored with it after a few weeks. And although I am sure I could get used to the finer things in life, I place my happiness and self-worth much too high to entertain the thought of being just a status symbol for someone. Oh sure, I can be as vain as the rest of them, but if my failed marriage taught me only one thing, it is that if there is a second time around, I am not settling. If the only thing a man can offer me is money, that is not good enough for me.

Honestly, sometimes I wish I could think differently. Sometimes it seems like it would be easier to just find someone to take care of me, forget about working on my issues, and not be alone anymore. But it’s not gonna happen. The heart wants what the heart wants and apparently, my beat-up, bruised, broken and sewn-back together heart is quite picky. Plus, I really don’t want to *just* sit around and look pretty all day. How utterly exhausting.


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