My future ex-husband always says, “If they can’t afford to live in Manhattan, don’t waste your time.” What he means is, life is short. Pursue your dreams. Don’t let anyone tell you no, especially if you’re attractive enough to get your way. It’s so true. Five years ago my uncle Myron was skiing in Verbier and Bam! Just like that, he was gone.
I was thinking about this the other day when I decided to write a novel. As my readers know, I’m the hostess at a private gastro-pub in Manhattan. We don’t give out the name, we have no website, and the sign on the door is written in invisible ink.
It’s terrific work. I love the pleasure of turning people away. I would do this job forever, if I could. But I can’t.
You’re probably as sad about this as I am. You’re asking yourself: Why, Jasmine, why?
I had this plan to be young and glamorous forever, but it never panned out. It’s a shame because I’m gorgeous. But tragically, my beauty is fading. I didn’t realize it, but the decline in beauty, as it relates to increasing age, is not gradual. It’s exponential. Did you know that? That once you pass a certain age, you might as well get fat and dress in that cheap, synthetic clothing that they make people in the Midwest wear? I wish someone had told me about this years ago. I would have come up with a different plan.
Given these unfortunate circumstances, it’s unfair of me to keep my job. Our customers deserve better. The men who grace our establishment should be greeted and seated by a woman they want to have sex with. The ladies deserve someone who makes them feel overweight and bad about themselves in general.
It’s time to face reality. I need a new career that doesn’t expose others to my crow’s feet. As Mark Twain said, “wrinkles should merely indicate where smiles have been, but unfortunately they end up making women ugly.” So here I am, bravely looking ahead, wondering what’s next for Jasmine.
With no other skills or training to speak of, I naturally turn to writing. Tomorrow I start my first novel. How hard could it be?