Two confessions, in no particular order. Two confessions, that will probably tell you all you need to know about my state of mind at the moment:
1. If I were beautiful or famous, my everyday dramas would ensure me a sure spot on the D-list. Maybe. (But I’d probably be told to dye my hair and get hair extensions, lose twenty pounds and make sure that cute blonde guy on TMZ talks about me nightly.)
2. I’ve been reading far too many historical romances of late.
Yes, tell us something new, I can hear some of you saying. For the rest of you, dear readers, elaboration is in order. I will try to be as honest as I can. Don’t worry: I’m not going to get all Bridget Jones on you and tell you my weight and the amount of wine I’ve had this evening. (But for the record: 136 lbs and two glasses of very good Australian Shiraz). That’s not the point. The point is that for some time now I have been trying to make my life more like a historical romance. I want a tempestuous sultry courtship, lots of incredible sex, and a blissful union. I want to clinch.
There are so many things wrong with this plan that I don’t know where to start. Start I must, though, I know. So, how about this minor, oh so minor, point: Life is chaotic whereas fiction is orderly. Or, rather, life –any life, but especially my life as it is right now –is disorderly, messy, and full of complications, and fiction –any fiction, but especially the books I have been reading –has a clearly defined trajectory. It makes sense. You see my problem. I’m a closure-seeking kind of gal stuck in a choose-your-own-adventure novel. It is not even a bloody romance.
Is it so wrong to want a passionate embrace?
Let’s be honest: I’d settle for, well, anything at this point. It’s been seven months –not that I’m counting or anything – since I, well, you know, did it. (With someone else, I should add, by way of clarification.) Please spare me the sympathy, darling readers. Do not tell me it is like riding a bicycle. I will be forced to tell you that if I thought it was like that then it really has been too long, and I can’t for the life of me remember to whom the line should be attributed. Do not tell me that I am not missing anything. I know you are lying to me. I know you will go home to your lovely partners and make sweet passionate love all night long just to show off. Do not tell me that you are sure that I will meet someone soon. I might stab you in the eye with a shrimp fork. (Note: not just any fork.)
Lest my comments about lack of physical contact lead you to the wrong conclusion, I should add that my life does have plenty of pursuit in it. It’s just that I’m the one doing the pursuing. Badly. I try too hard in case that wasn’t obvious. I’m all heaving bosoms and grand gestures. I’ve totally forgotten how the laws of attraction work. Really, there is no cause for my inadequacies on this count. I should not have to resort to staged entrances and fake laughter to get the point across. I have read enough to know better.
Is that enough elaboration for you? I’ve got to shake myself out of these habits. Maybe Bridget had the right idea. Maybe I should start smoking and shag my boss. Just kidding – I meant, maybe I should start fixating on my weight and appearance instead of mindless paparazzi-driven television clips and authors that use lurid sex scenes as a means to move their minimal plot along.
Here are my options, then, in no particular order. I suspect these options will probably tell you all you need to know about my state of mind at the moment:
- Start Reading Mystery Novels.
- Buy a better vibrator.
