People often ask me what it’s like being the world’s most famous teething toy. They want to hear about the glamour of it all, about the F.A.O. Schwartz displays and the accolades and the song John Mayer may or may not have written about me. But it’s not always an easy life.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my work. I mean, sure, if I’m being honest with myself, it can get a bit tiring to be gnawed on all day by babies and Shih Tzus, or placed in a cat litter “zoo” with Muno, the phallic centaur from Yo Gabba Gabba. But trust me, the adoration of my fans makes it all worthwhile. (That, and the 10 percent cut I get on Sophie sales, which has made me a millionaire hundreds of times over. My primary residence – on Avenue Foch in Paris – contains three original Picassos that have been shrunk down to 18 centimeters using giant convection ovens so that I may enjoy them without the assistance of an Erector Set crane.)
Still, I’m getting older, and while my rubber may look taut and healthy thanks to my all-natural, phalate-free Hevea tree sap physique (as well as once-a-month juice fasts and a truly punishing Equinox trainer named Fabian), I have to be realistic about how long I can keep up with the other toys in the sandbox. I turned 50 in human years last May, rolling off the assembly line in 1961 on the same day that John F. Kennedy made his “man on the moon” speech to Congress. Incidentally, would you believe that I’m just a few weeks younger than George Clooney? Our agents tried to set us up once but he backed out at the last minute, mumbling something racist about dating outside his species. You’re not kidding anyone, Clooney – I know the real reason is that my shapely neck and legs would make you look like a toadstool at the foot of la Tour Eiffel.
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