Litmus Test: Do You Look Good Doing It?

“Honey, do we have someplace we keep towels?” My husband holds a stack of clean, neatly folded towels that I had left on a chair; the chair upon which he plans to sit. This, as far as I can tell, is the only reason he picked up the towels and began looking for another place to put them.

“No. We have no place for towels. In the nine months we’ve lived here, I’ve never figured out where to put them.”

“Oh,” my husband says helpfully, “how about in here?” He opens a cupboard door in the hall—actually the linen closet—and stares at several shelves of folded towels, washcloths and sheet sets.

“Oh,” he says crestfallen. “You’re being sarcastic.”

I can’t help myself. Ever since I first encountered MAD Magazine’s “Snappy Answers to Stupid Questions” in the 1960s, I’ve been practicing disdainful responses. But now, firmly in AARP territory, I’m here to report that sarcasm does not stand the litmus test of time. At least not aesthetically.

Sarcasm, like a cigarette, looks good only when dangling from lips full with youth, and cheeks still flush with baby fat. The thorn’s prick after all, is tolerable because the attached rose is so fragrant. The tart tongue, however, doesn’t look so good poking out from the withered face of either gender.

I first noticed this phenomenon when I visited an older relative. She and her husband exchanged non-stop verbal barbs; I thought they were headed for divorce court. When I later questioned her as to why they are still married if they hate each other so much, she looked aghast. “That’s how we always talk to each other.”

That’s when I learned the awful truth: sarcasm coming from lips thinned by age and a face grooved with life’s insults can turn even the friendliest neighbor into a harridan from hell. With equally thinned libidos, sarcasm-mongers can’t even look forward to great Taming of the Shrew-style make-up sex.

All that said, and as a lifetime member of the MAD’s Snappy Answers club, I’m unwilling to give it up entirely. But out of kindness to others, I’ll now practice my cynical bantering alone in my room, while slam dancing in my thong bikini and in between bong hits.

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