I am perfect in shape and form.

I am immaculate, woven by gods from fibers of cotton and Nancy Meyers’ discarded screenplays.

Sent from above to sit on the shoulders of America’s matronly sweetheart, until the day she takes her final bow as eccentric mother-in-law.

But I will never die.

I stay crisp: I am a shell protecting my mistress from the easy emotions of Woody Allen’s fragile masculinity.

I stay white: I only drink chardonnay.

Sometimes, she tightens a tie around my neck and I do not like this. But I sacrifice my comfort for her execution of a timeless and iconic aesthetic. I shudder when she wears a men’s vest and my full glory is compromised, but I persist.

I feel alive when a chunky necklace sits coldly between my collar. At once I become maternal and sensual, as if I’m about to cook a ratatouille for my son-in-law then write a fiery think-piece on the female orgasm at 60, glass of chardonnay in hand.

I am worn to sleep, in case there’s a salad to mix or PTA meeting to attend in her dreams. I go well with sensible reading glasses.

I am suitable for every occasion.

And when her time is past, I will retire.

I will join Jack Nicholson’s sunglasses in a comfortable resting place. And I will take part-time work helping Jamie Lee Curtis sell yogurt.