Then there was Sarah, who, according to Miranda, went rollerblading in her basement at four a.m. Drunk. Thirty-eight years old. A grown woman clinging to the role of ingenue. Is there anything less attractive? I don't think so.
But what is Sarah supposed to do? She is 38, and she's not married, and she'd like to be with someone. And men, as we know from this column, are attracted to youth. Even the women at the bridal shower, older than Sarah now, were younger than she is when they got married. It may not be an option for her anymore. So she rollerblades with a twenty-five year old in her basement. Instead of having sex with him. He wants to; she is afraid he'll think her body's too old.
"Oh hi-i-i," Sarah says, when Carrie calls her in the afternoon. She's laid up on the couch in her tiny but perfect one-bedroom apartment in a high-rise just west of Second Avenue. "Oh I'm fi-i-i— ne. Can you believe it?" she sounds unnaturally cheerful. "Just a httle broken ankle. And the cutest doctors in the emergency room. And Luke with me the whole time."
"Luke?"
"Lucas really. The cutest guy. My httle friend." She's giggling. A horrifying sound.
"Where did you get the rollerblades?"
"Oh, he came on them. To the party. Isn't that cute?"
The cast comes off in six weeks. In the meantime, Sarah will have to hobble around, running her PR business as best she can. She has no disability insurance. The business runs on a shoestring.
Is this better or worse than being married and living in the suburbs? Better or worse? Who can tell.