Life hasn’t turned out like I planned.
I’m not rich yet, which is just…weird. I thought for sure I’d be able to afford that summer home by now. I was thinking Prince Edward Island, which I’m pretty sure would only be truly satisfying in the summer what with it’s being in Canada and all. Or maybe the Florida Keys, you know, if Michael wins. And really I knew the cottage in the south of France or the English countryside was a little far-fetched, but now I’m actually beginning to wonder.
I don’t own a single pair of Christian Louboutins. Not one. That is just craziness really. In fact, my wardrobe in general has never surpassed the year it was at its best which was probably – I’m gonna say – 1995. Right now it evokes that feeling, you know, at the very end of the paycheck when you open your pantry and find only that one can of vegetable juice you don’t even remember buying because what do you use that for? My closet is like that. It’s at the end of its decade. A while ago.
I’ve never published a novel, and Carrie Underwood has yet to sing the song I wrote for my wedding. Don’t even get me started on the movie premiere that hasn’t and the years of awards shows I continue to watch from my living room.
I got cancer but not a movie script based on the trial. I lived but not to radically change my life and save the world. You see what I mean? It’s weird.
But, seriously, I think the weirdest thing of all, the part that makes no sense whatsoever, is that I wake up every single morning as if all these things will any minute occur. And I go to bed at night intensely, deeply satisfied with all the things that have.
Thank goodness for the middle of the day when I obsess more over the have-nots, and the appropriate cause-and-effect of life seems perfectly intact.