My mid-life crisis all started with a broken heel. As I’m limping along, trying to look as though I belong on 5th Avenue office on which I work, I tried to convince myself that I matter in someone’s life — someone who is not a direct link in the hierarchy of successors in the event of my intestate death.
A chain of events was spurred:
• I limped with the broken heel to the subway. — I cannot afford taxis to and fro on a daily basis.
• Sitting on the subway with my broken heel, I observed all the schlubby working class people headed to the same neighborhood. — I cannot afford to live in Manhattan given my spacial needs and am, therefore, a schlubby working class minion.
• I hobbled home from the subway to a dog and nothing else. No letters or emails, no projects or parties, no calls from the paparazzi. — I have no one to leave my fortune in the event of my testate death. In fact, I could rot for days and days before anyone was the wiser.***
So I bought a new pair of heels.
Okay, Mommy’s better now, so quit calling me “Mommy” and for God’s sake put down that grilled cheese sandwich!
***Okay, Christian might wonder why I didn’t return his calls, but would he bother looking for a corpse? I’m not sure. My mother never calls. It could be months before my maggot ridden body was recovered and by then my stocks could have plummeted, so let’s not count on her. Dad? He’s now confined to a year in solitary, does he need the money for a Johnny Cochran-like defense? Sure, but is he worth it? Only if he keeps sending me nude sketches. Yowzer.