Vision of 2009
Oh, did we talk about money.
Who has it. Who should. Who doesn't.
Mostly, the who doesn't was us.
We talked about self help books (a list of the past thirty years found in one of the magazines). Sad part? I was the lone participant who'd read 80 percent of the books.
"Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus"? Me. "The Road Less Traveled", "The Rules", "The Secret", "He's Just Not That Into You"?
Yup and more. Can't even remember them all. But I've read 'em. What does that say about me? Read all the popular self help books and I'm still a mess. Sheesh.
Okay, I'm not really a mess, but it looks good on a computer screen. But I am alone. I am without my life partner. I am facing the hardships of today alone.
Well, I'm with this shot of tequila. That's not exactly alone, now is it?
Oh god, I'm starting to sound like a functional alcoholic. But I know I'm not one. But I can wonder as I watch the new season of The Bachelor. Can ABC please find different looking women? God, all these women look alike. What is up with that? And this guy -- whatever his name is (can't be that dreamy, can't remember the dude's name), has a three year old son. I have a four year old son, and let me tell you, I'd be hard pressed to expose him to the rigors and crazies of network television, no matter how much the audience is shrinking. I don't know whether to throw up or just go to sleep.
Lately I have been easily forgetting Mr. Casablanca. That ship has sailed. I am ready to move on, I tell myself. And then, sitting there, sipping wine, finished with my very optimistic and specific vision board, I see his face. As I talk about the reintroduction of the gentleman, I feel his presence. I remember my yearning and my hunger. I remember my broken heart. And then I forget myself - the span of my hips and the curve of my belly; I forget that I am free of makeup but full of dreams. He's just not that into me. I must confess.
Should I join Match.com? Should I try harder? Smile quicker? Hold that stare?
And I should continue to dream and shelf this weird ass obsession with The Bachelor. That's Hollywood but I'm actually in Hollywood. I am real; they are hoping for something that probably isn't. And never could be.
Welcome passion. Welcome high life. Welcome love.
It's 2009 and I'm ready.