Becoming a Third Wife in Los Angeles
A few years ago, I sorda swiped a brand new beige, yes, beige?!, Range Rover while driving my vintage 1983, beat to shit BMW, that I love, that is worth nothing financially and everything personally. When I exited the car to assess the damage, it was minimal at best. One panel was barely dented and there were a few scrapes. I noticed that the woman behind the wheel was in her early 20’s. The size and clarity of her diamond ring emitted a blinding glare. Everything about her was perfect in that thank God for plastic surgery, so I don’t have to look like a farmer’s, pastors, Amish daughter, kind of way. A face with high cheekbones. Skin whipped, stitched and tucked to perfection. Flawlessly spray tanned in effervescent-just-stepped-off-the-beach-at-2PM-glow. An impeccable coiffure that only a Hollywood zillionaire could afford. Not an ounce of fat—zero, nada, zilch. If fat was ever present in her ether, surely an overpriced non-physician-physician gave her a collection of pills to shield her from catching it. And to maintain a size 00, She’d become a Breatharian 10-years prior; draped in wildly expensive, trendy attire worthy of arm candy, but not a mother of additional loin fruit – that’s a second wife’s job.
That got me to thinking about what it takes to become a third wife in Los Angeles.
I guess it goes something like this…
Scarlett (formerly known as B’Elana) wasn’t getting gigs in her chosen field and the Cheesecake Factory was downsizing their serving staff. At 20, she was deemed “a has been”. Off Scarlett went to make calculated adjustments to herself (on a nominal budget) in order to fulfill her destiny.
She began working out and stopped eating. Scarlett went to mall hairstylists for a hair-do that said lookin’-for-money-honey. Scarlett learned how to use her hands in dainty fashion by reading used, dated etiquette books. She learned how to do her nails and shave every hair on her body. Her diet consisted of sun, air and bulimia, that is, if she ate once a week, something so heinous and frowned upon, it was done in secrecy. Closet eating? I think not. Rather, private eating. Scarlett frequented upscale bars and soirées to catch her meal ticket.
Becoming a third wife in Los Angeles can’t be easy. I mean, it’s a full time job. Rich and wealthy are worlds apart. How many women know the difference? A lot of time must be wasted dating men who drive expensive cars, yet live in one-bedroom apartments in the slums of Beverly Hills.
Scarlett was determined, even if she was living in a $600 per month teeny studio, in Koreatown with three of her best friends who fled the confines of their Amish upbringing, She’d come so far. It was only a matter of time before she caught a fellah, and before catching an STD.
Two-years later, on the brink of financial and emotional ruin, she found her money-mate and planned an ostentatious wedding.
After the honeymoon, reality set in… She had to maintain an even higher standard than she’d become accustomed to. Looking perfect at all times. Never allowed to hang out in sweats and a T-shirt.
Just chronicling the notion is exhausting, can you imagine living it?