My friend Lucy began to discuss the inevitable wear and tear of her vagina. She has had four children and no amount of Pilates and Kegels in the world can sprinkle it with fairy dust and bring it back to its former pink rosebud state. “I think I have to do some work down there.”
Katherine’s eyes opened. “Like landscaping work?”
Lucy rolled her eyes. “No, plastic surgery. I don’t think I have stuff hanging down, but I want to get everything organized.”
“But you’re married. Who cares?” I whispered.
That might have been the end of it, if Peggy, the only lesbian in the group, hadn’t had one too many tequilas and decided to egg Lucy on. “Well, let’s see, we’ll tell you!”
I had a moment of panic, hoping it wouldn’t turn into some orgy—in which case I would have to coolly excuse myself to hide upstairs in my paisley pajamas with a mug of warm milk. And the Old Testament.
Lucy unbuttoned her purposely tattered and expensive jeans and lowered her La Perla underpants. It was the most finely trimmed and delicately pruned vagina I had ever seen. I knew Lucy would age well; she monitored every inch of her body like a guard at San Quentin. The rest of us sadly looked down at our vaginas, which we all knew looked like the back of Grey Gardens. In my youth I would have been best in show.
I decided on the plane ride home, in between episodes of Downton Abbey, that I was going to make an effort to infuse my life with more ebullience and adventure. But what exactly is my idea of excitement these days? A midnight bowl of fiber cereal while watching last Wednesday’s Law and Order SVU, which is on too late to see it in real time? To quote Peggy Lee, “Is that all there is?” You see, I’m not ready for true adulthood! I don’t want a colonoscopy! I don’t wish to sleep with other people, but I would like a few men and perhaps a woman to at least try!
And whatever happens, I will not throw myself a big, blowout fiftieth birthday party. It would be like attending my own funeral, and then picking up the tab. I have been caught up in the flurry of fiftieth birthday parties and although I may dance like a soul sister until I’m covered in sweat and jump up and down like a sorority girl being handed carbs, it all makes me heartsick for sweet sixteen. These celebrations of the fact that we’re still alive feel more like a segment of This Is Your Life. (Yes, I’m old enough to know that reference.) We all observe vintage childhood photos of the birthday girl carefully pasted on lavender boards and hanging about the room so we all can see just how deteriorated she has become.
How do I want to mark the fact that I will be turning half a century old? I want to fly to an island, alone, with a bag of books, no beauty creams, and a stash of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. I want to dive in the ocean without worrying about how much cellulite I’ve acquired, like rings on a tree, or how, even from a distance, I would never be mistaken for a twenty-year-old. And when I dive into the sea where there are no sounds, I can just be. And I will marvel at the churning sand and the conch shells that are still perfect and pink even after decades of tumult. You see, underwater and above coral there are no TV executives, memories of Michelle and me buying a carton of Marlboro Lights at the 7-Eleven, old lovers, decaying bodies, Facebook, slide shows, or retrospective sadness. It’s the only place where my vagina and I are ageless.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to acknowledge my editor, Jennifer Barth. In fact, this book should be dedicated to her. I tried many times to give back my advance because I was consumed with children and chronic head colds. She would not accept and pleaded with me to keep writing. When I was at the end of my rope, my brain throbbing from spellcheck, Jennifer would still meet me for lunch. And pay.
Last summer I was bedridden with pneumonia and wanted to postpone my book. Jennifer warmly convinced me that delirium was a form of creativity. When I cut my leg open and received sixty stitches . . . well, you can guess—she encouraged me to keep writing. With my leg propped up. And drugged out.
There would not be a book, let alone an acknowledgments page, without the insistence, encouragement, and support of Jennifer Barth. I more than acknowledge her; I bow to her.
(Jennifer Barth did not edit this page.)
I would also like to thank HarperCollins for all their ongoing support and creative input.
And Daisy, my obese dachshund, who showed the whole crew at the book-cover photo shoot what a true diva is!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALI WENTWORTH is the author of the New York Times best-seller Ali in Wonderland. She made a name for herself on the comedy show In Living Color and has appeared on such television shows as The Tonight Show with Jay Leno, Seinfeld, Head Case, and The Oprah Winfrey Show, for which she was a correspondent. Her film credits include Jerry Maguire, The Real Blonde, Office Space, and It’s Complicated. A native of Washington, D.C., she lives in New York City with her husband, George Stephanopoulos, and their two girls.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
ALSO BY ALI WENTWORTH
Ali in Wonderland: And Other Tall Tales
The WASP Cookbook
CREDITS
COVER DESIGN BY GREGG KULICK
COVER PHOTOGRAPH © HEIDI GUTMAN
COPYRIGHT
HAPPILY ALI AFTER. Copyright © 2015 by Trout the Dog Productions, Inc. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
Frontispiece by Heidi Gutman
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.
ISBN: 978-0-06-223849-8 (hardcover)
EPub Edition JUNE 2015 ISBN 9780062238511
15 16 17 18 19 OV/RRD 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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* At the time of publication, Archie and Lenny were living with a daughter of a friend of a cousin of the priest of the Greek Orthodox cathedral in Long Island. Their names were changed to Taylor Swift and Harry Styles.
Happily Ali After: And Other Fairly True Tales Page 14