by Stefanie Wilder-Taylor
My friend David is a perfectionist but he’s working on it. I first met him a little more than fifteen years ago at a comedy club in Los Angeles and I found him to be a hilarious, anxious mess so naturally I took to him immediately. We hung out together regularly, and spent a lot of time analyzing our respective love lives, giving each other advice and much needed reassurance. “Just give her another chance,” I tried telling him once after he decided a girl’s teeth were too big to warrant a second date. “Can’t do it. I just don’t see myself long term with someone whose teeth would look more appropriate in Gary Busey’s mouth. Is that harsh?” It was but I sort of saw his point. I was working with some commitment issues of my own.
Years later neither of us had made much progress although he insisted he was ready to get married and have kids. “I’m sure she’ll call you back at some point,” I told him referring to the model/actress/dancer he’d taken out on one extremely expensive dinner date hoping to impress her. “But she’ll probably be calling to borrow money. If you really want to date someone stable, why do you keep picking actresses?”
“I know, I know. What I want is a sweet Jewish girl who will worship me and be a great mother to my children but she has to have a smokin’ hot ass. I’m asking too much, aren’t I?”
“Yeah, Dave. I think you are. You need to lower your expectations because what you want from another person and from yourself is just not attainable. Look at me; I’m dating a guy with a small penis and I’m perfectly happy.”
“You’re right. I’m going to work on this issue harder. I think I’m willing to settle for an ass that’s simply tight. You know like a swimmer’s ass.” I gave up.
Approximately five or six years later, I was married and living in the valley when I got the news that David had finally found someone for keeps; a pretty, Jewish, cool woman with a seemingly very nice but realistic rear end and reasonably sized teeth. She was exactly right for him and I was ecstatic for them both. They got married, bought a house together and began trying to start a family. Unfortunately, that part wasn’t so ideal. While I was popping out babies like the Octo-mom, they struggled for years with hardcore fertility issues going from doctor to doctor trying every method imaginable. So it was cause for much celebration on Tuesday when I attended the bris for their 8-day-old twin boys.
I arrived just on time to their beautiful house, hugged everyone I knew, grabbed a bagel, lox and cream cheese and made my way into the back bedroom where it turned out the rabbi was preparing the babies for the circumcision. My plan was to just catch a glimpse of the babies and get the hell out of the room because I definitely wanted no part of any snipping action, but when the rabbi asked me to hold the baby he’d just prepped, I found myself too mesmerized to leave. I’d almost forgotten what absolute perfect little miracles infants are. As I held and cuddled all six pounds of sweetness, the rabbi undressed the other baby and that’s when things took an ugly turn.
“Relax,” the rabbi was saying to David who looked like relaxed was not a feeling he would be experiencing for at least a decade. “His penis will most likely be as big as his brother’s. It might just be that it hasn’t dropped out all the way.”
“But it’s going to be normal right? This is my son we’re talking about!” I decided this would be a good time to make my exit and perhaps find a paper bag for David to breathe into.
After everything was over and I was fairly positive I wouldn’t be at risk of seeing blood, I reentered the bedroom to see if I could be of help –after all, I have some experience with twins.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
“Yes. Luckily the rabbi says that both boys have good penises. He thinks it may have just been the angle.”
“Dave, seriously. Take a moment to appreciate what you have! You can’t worry about something so ridiculous right now. It’s totally a non-issue! Your babies are perfect, absolutely perfect.” I said, reassuringly.
“Thanks, Stef. That means a lot. Plus, you’re with a guy with a small penis and I’ve never heard you complain.”
“Huh?” It took a minute for me to realize what he was talking about. “Oh God! Small penis guy? I didn’t marry him! I broke up with him like a week later!” I looked at David’s face. “But that’s not why I broke up with him,” I lied. “He was a really bad tipper.”
And that’s when I went to see if there were any danishes. Which there were. And they were perfectly delicious.