Welcome to my weekly confessional. Today’s subject is fantasies. Take mine. I can’t be the only woman who stands in a checkout line and thumbs through magazines to see what my favorite celebs are wearing. And who they’re canoodling.
What about you? You hear a song from your past that evokes memories of good times. In truth, those “good times” were likely fraught with youthful chaos and confusion. But they’re your memories, dammit, and you can choose to remember the highlights, like how you fit a pair of size 26 Levis, and how you often had your pick of the litter. (I’m talking men, not dogs.)
Back to my fantasy. While waiting at a red light, you glance over and spot a gorgeous man in the next lane. Since I always occupy the passenger seat – be it car, taxi or donkey cart – I have plenty of time to safely gawk. And dream.
In my fantasy, if an interesting male enters the storyline, I can’t be the contentedly married woman I am in real life. No, I must be a widow and a respectable period of mourning has already passed. My poor partner died a painless death, of course. He isn’t even allowed to be in a coma because miracles happen and in my fantasy, I don’t need that kind of pressure.
Crank up the fantasy volume: when I hit the dance floor, I move like an incarnation of Beyonce and Shakira. In reality, I look like a flailing fool, never quite sure in what decade I’m dancing. I might be doing the funky chicken, the hustle, hip hop, who can tell?
More likely I’m still dancing the step-shuffle routine I learned in grade six to The Archies song “Sugar, Sugar.” I fear the day I’m forced to watch a video of myself on the dance floor. Never again will I budge from my folding chair.
As for appearance, all body hair is sublime in my fantasy, and it doesn’t grow or shed. In other words, you won’t find me primping, plucking, or slumped in a salon chair washing that gray right outta my hair. In my make-believe world, I yank the ball cap off my head and slo-mo twirl as if I cat-walked out of a Herbal Essence commercial.
In my fantasy, I’m never disappointed. Peek in and you’ll find me doing everything with success. Might as well, I’m the one writing the script. Just make sure no editors get their hands on my work. I’d hate to see all their red ink.
Ah, screw the editors. Next stop – the red carpet. I haven’t awarded myself any Oscars lately.