Among Frenemies

Originally posted October 1, 2010

Dear Madonna,

You are 52 years old. (The truth hurts, I know.) I also know you have done everything in your power to look somewhere in your late thirties for at least the last 15 years. For this, I commend you. But I also blame you for wasting my time. You see, I spend inordinate amounts of my waking hours wondering just how much money all that upkeep costs.

No, really. I am seriously curious. Because you see, if I were really rich, I’d do exactly what you do. I’d date really young guys; I’d pal around with my adolescent daughter and that naughty Taylor Momsen; and I’d spend every waking hour when I wasn’t studying Kabbalah or making epic period movies either at the gym or having some revolutionary beauty treatment—oxygen infusions, photo facials, collagen boosters, cranial massages, whatever it took to make me look oddly 18 and 38 at the same time.

I only bring up your “real age” (did I say it? You’re 52!!) because today the world got a load of what you look like without retouching, and by the sound of the roar over on the Internet, your young-enough-to-be-your-son boyfriend, your Tracey Anderson–toned body and your aforementioned cosmetically plumped up face had all apparently been fooling people into thinking you’d inked an actual deal with El Diablo.

Why are people so surprised that your boobs are not as full as the ones in the ads? Or that your nose is not quite that straight? That your calves are actually more muscular than the ones Dolce and Gabbana are using to sell their line of Sicilian housewife clothing?

Come on! There is only so much an unlimited budget and the apparent willpower of 30 humans can reasonably accomplish. But now I find myself—head in a bag of Mallomars—questioning my more humble efforts at anti-aging. Why did I get up at 6:30 this morning to do yoga? Why do I bother to see an “age-management specialist” for my facials? Why do I ever change out of my Free City sweats? Why, oh why, oh why?

Whichever bitchy studio assistant over at Steven Klein’s leaked those unretouched horror shots of you should be fired—like, with-a-firing-squad kind of fired. Not because he showed the world you are merely a shadow of your MILF-y self with some seriously veiny and old-looking hands but because he blew the whole charade for the rest of us.

So, anywho, Madge, if you want to come over tonight to hang out—just us old gals—I still have my VHS copy of Desperately Seeking Susan. We can watch it and remember what life was like before the goddamned Internet ruined everything.

Your frenemy Cat



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