la vie ordinaire
- get up at 5am on saturday morning, go for a walk, take a shower, clean the kitchen, feed the dogs, run to farmer’s market for best dibs on organic produce. just. like. every. other. saturday.
- lovingly make labels for travel-sized toiletries for your husband's upcoming trip to london.
- having recently surrendered to the twilight bandwagon and read the first two books in just under 48 hours, add trip to bookstore to your saturday routine to purchase third and fourth books.
- with all your adult wisdom and experience, contemplate the mysterious hold the story has over you. realize that the powerful (albeit adolescent) mix of lust and recklessness were, are and always will be your drug of choice. enter brief melancholic dance with the reality that this intoxication belongs with youth and any future experience of this sort will most likely not be yours.
- consider alternative substance abuse.
- casually browse the literature section of bookstore; find yourself in the "m" section. after two unsuccessful scans, slowly come to the understanding that what you are looking for is in the teen section. saunter over to teen section. tell yourself you have nothing to be ashamed of as you mentally concoct the story that you are shopping for your 14 year old daughter (even though your daughter is 24). try not to be too devastated when you see that books three and four are not there either. add trip to target to your list.
- beautiful 20-something boy politely asks if he can help you (as in, “can I help you, ma’am?”). summon 40 years of practicing natural confidence and ask about the books then instantly regret it when he turns to lead you to another section. blush with shame as you realize you are following his litheness to (horror of horrors!) the romance section. sigh with relief once you see you are only moving to the magnificence that is the twilight display table. try not to let your eyes catch fire at the sight of bella bookmarks and edward journals. graciously accept his offer of eclipse. keep your hands to yourself.
- momentarily entertain the delusion that he is telling himself the same thing.
- run into colleague at bookstore. conceal teen romance under latest issues of new yorker and food and wine. intelligently discuss upcoming court case.
- rush home to purchase fourth book online, resisting the edward journal. move movie to top of netflix queue.
- do yoga to stretch muscles that are wound tight after two days in a prone reading position.
- laugh at yourself for your silliness and accept that this is part of the ride. be grateful for the midlife ability to put it all in context.
- go back online and buy something ridiculously expensive.
