The Case For Marrying An Older Tab

What the hell is a flush ponytail.

This essay in The Cut is titled “The Case for Marrying an Older Man” and its first sentence is: “In the summer, in the south of France, my husband and I like to play, rather badly, the lottery,” so I can’t say I didn’t know what I was getting into. But Grazie Sophia Christie and an editor who remains unnamed but obviously despises her have created a classic hate-read of the kind I thought was extinct in these debased times. In thirty eight hundred intermittently grammatical words and as many unnecessary commas as possible Christie tells the story of her life as a twenty year old Harvard nymphet provocatively reading Lolita in the Harvard Business School library in order to bag an older man and graduate with her MRS degree, a tale so old she thinks she made it up.

I had high breasts, most of my eggs, plausible deniability when it came to purity, a flush ponytail, a pep in my step that had yet to run out.

I swear that’s an actual quote. What the hell is a “flush ponytail?” Anyway her plan succeeds:

I called and climbed into an Uber. Then I promptly climbed out of it. For there he was, emerging from the revolving doors. Brown eyes, curved lips, immaculate jacket. I went to him, asked him for a cigarette. A date, days later. A second one, where I discovered he was a person, potentially my favorite kind: funny, clear-eyed, brilliant, on intimate terms with the universe…

After graduation and my fellowship at Oxford, I stayed in Europe for his career and married him at 23.

But, twist! When they met, she was twenty and he was a burned out, grizzled… thirty. When she said “older” she mostly meant “rich.” Now seven whole years later she’s ready to explore a philosophical territory made up of something like the negative space excluded by intersectional feminism and class solidarity. Recognizing that all too often it’s women’s labor that molds men into a shape women find appealing, Christie sees her proper role as the beneficiary of this labor, previously done by some now-used-up thirty year old hag. Not for her, the teaching of coasters! For her instead, the life of a robot girlfriend from classic sci-fi.

Ambitious, hungry, he needed someone smart enough to sustain his interest, but flexible enough in her habits to build them around his hours. I could. I do: read myself occupied, make myself free, materialize beside him when he calls for me. In exchange, I left a lucrative but deadening spreadsheet job to write full-time, without having to live like a writer. I learned to cook, a little, and decorate, somewhat poorly. Mostly I get to read, to walk central London and Miami and think in delicious circles, to work hard, when necessary, for free, and write stories for far less than minimum wage when I tally all the hours I take to write them.

This is an essay that dares to ask: “What if I made my whole life out of red flags?” The great irony of having time enough at last to “write full-time” is that when your rich husband funds your vanity lit mag, nothing will ever force you to learn how to write well.

Anyway they’re planning to have children soon and that will obviously go splendidly. Nobody in history has ever been this twenty seven years old, and I can’t wait for the update six or seven years from now, when she starts to get her first glimpse of how very long life really is.

Mary Gillis posted: “MYSTERIOUS STRANGER: hands woman box If you press this button, someone you don't know dies WOMAN: Ok presses button STRANGER: Whoa, I didn't even tell you about the money WOMAN: I can't afford to pay much STRANGER: No, you don't pay WOMAN: Oh good presses button again STRANGER: Jesus Christ

░H░E░R░RM░A░N░░I░N░░B░I░O░. “Munchables Has Been Compromised.” “Cheryl Hines’ husband chooses Sergey Brin’s ex-wife as running mate.” b/w “This woman is "Global Joy Officer" for a company called the Sloomoo Institute that charges people to play with slime.” Judging by Theodore Schleifer’s profile of Shanahan in Puck, the “Succession” writers were too kind in their portrayal of Connor Roy. Stephen Crowder sent threatening yam. Paste relaunched Splinter and also bought the AV Club, I guess. Looks like we’re finally in the G/O Media endgame. L.A. Swift quake “equivalent to a local magnitude earthquake of 0.851.” Today in Crabs: The World’s Funniest Crab Joke Competition is open for entries.

Shoshana posted a picture of a cake with yellow, pink, and blue flowers that sayd “Congrats on Submitting” and wrote: “I picked up this cake that said "Congrats on Submitting" and the person at the bakery said "make sure you always support the bottom." This was a cake congratulating someone on submitting a paper to a journal.”

Let’s Get Real Depressed: with Adam Gopnik’s gloss of Timothy W. Ryback’s “Takeover: Hitler’s Final Rise to Power” in The New Yorker. I don’t know if you guys are history buffs or not, but however many parallels between 1932 Germany and 2024 U.S.A. you think there are? It’s more than that.

Today’s Song: 100 gecs, xXXi_wud_nvrstøp_ÜXXx

Music Intern Sam isn’t around so I managed to sneak in our first gecs of Season X. Also the comments on that marrying rich piece are delightful. “I'm not blown away by her worldly, sophisticated king born in 1987.” Lamp.

Fun Fact: Being forced to beg you for money in exchange for these words is all that’s standing between me and infinite commas.