Alec Baldwin’s engagement to Hilaria Thomas, 28 year-old yoga teacher, has me irrationally angry. Then I become angry at myself for being like my mother: irrationally angry.
One morning, my mom was at my house and the weather report was on. Our local weathergirl is petite and Asian with breasts the size of her own head. That is not hyperbole. Either of her tits could be placed on top of her neck and would approximate the size of a head. And if it were placed there, men would actually look in the direction of her face. I said something along those lines to my mom and she said, with no trace of irony, “I know and it makes me SO ANGRY!”
I rolled my eyes at her, a move I perfected at 14. Why waste energy being angry at such a thing?
Because she’s old and alone and no man will even look at her except maybe to say “Get out of my way, lady.” Because when she sees the buxom Asian woman on TV, telling us it’s going to be another sunny day in L.A., she knows that is what men want. Not her.
As a woman, you get to an age where you realize men are no longer looking at you. From the time your breasts budded, you have been enduring the lecherous, longing, or loving advances of boys and men. I remember when I was in my teens, that famous statistic came out that a single woman in her forties has a better chance of being hijacked by a terrorist than married. So, I guess she better hope that terrorist is single.
If my husband met me on the street today, he wouldn’t look at me twice. He’d probably think, “Cute kids,” and move on. I’m ready to be hot again, although I wish that sitting on my ass and eating ice cream were the keys to that kingdom. I know I will never be hot like I was at 23, but I will also never be that self-righteous or crazy. Everything is a trade-off.
Baldwin is rich, intelligent, handsome, funny, and famous. At 54 years-old, he is 26 years older than his fiancée. That’s not just old enough to be her father. It’s old enough to be her father who didn’t have kids too young. Why should I care?
I’m insecure. I was raised by someone who frequently comments on women’s beauty and they’re always the same kind of women: young and sexy. When I told my dad I watch “Game of Thrones” he mentioned that he knows one of the producers. “He’s married to Amanda Peet, so he’s doing pretty well.” His tone said, “DUH. What more could a man want?” Maybe Amanda Peet is an awful crazy bitch, though. Doesn’t matter. She’s gorgeous. I also mentioned I recognized the name of a woman he worked with in the 80s as the executive producer of a show I watched. “Yeah, I saw her recently,” he remarked. “She looked old and fat. She was wearing some caftanny thing.” Here he made a face as though he’d had a stroke. This is the attitude of the man who shaped my attitude about men.
As long as I am young and hot, my man is “doing well.” If I’m old and fat, he must be disgusted and miserable and paralyzed on one side of his face. Thankfully, I didn’t marry a man who thinks that. Or did I? Don’t they all think that? If Odie were rich and powerful and had young athletic women throwing themselves at his money, would I stand a chance?
Ultimately, the problem is me. These troubling thoughts are symptoms of a psyche that needs more healing. I’m running out of time, too. I’m still young and I don’t have a whole lifetime to work this shit out. I have many blessings. A flat tummy is not currently one of them, but a happy baby who just learned how to clap is. I think I made a good trade.
Alec Baldwin may be handsome, rich, funny, and smart, but he’s also a raging narcissist who called his own daughter a “thoughtless pig” because he felt rejected. I think he has no choice but to find himself a twenty-eight year old.
A fifty-four year-old woman wouldn’t take his shit.