Thursday, January 20, 2005

Let's Be Honest

I've always said that if I was as richer than God, or say, Oprah, I would be in the shape of perfection. I would have a personal trainer haul my fat ass out of bed at 6am and whip me into shape, I'd have a personal chef to cook me delicious, yet low-fat food, and I'd have a personal tailor to design and create kickin' clothes to show off my fabulous figure.

Actually, if I were that rich, I'd lay around all day and eat rich ethnic food, cooked to order by a stable of authentic native chefs kidnapped from the 4 corners of the Earth, sold into culinary slavery, and bought by me, me, me. They would be on-call 24/7, whipping up Chicken Korma at 1am, Pho for breakfast, tamales for lunch...I would then nap on my ultra-luxe sheets in my huge TempurPedic bed, surrounded by down pillows, only to wake up in the wee small hours of the evening and be carried to the clawfooted, three and a half foot deep jacuzzi bath by my seven barely legal, toned, taut and tanned Swedish houseboys, who would lovingly caress and massage each and every pit of cellulite and fat. Then my slightly older but still incredibly virile, intellectual but not snooty, tall, dark, and handsome (but not pretty) lover would make sweet, sweet love down by the fire to my soft, pale, doughy body, all the while telling me how he loves a 'real' woman with plenty of curves. Then we would order some steak frites from the Frenchy cook we keep tied up in the basement.

I would NOT be out running the Marine Corps marathon. I would not be able to bounce a quarter off my abs. I would not have a 6 pack, except in the specially made built in fridge under my nightstand, and that would be fresh selections from my personal brewery. I would probably be fat, but I would absolutely not give a tinkham damn.

Am I too old? Too old to do the things I've dreamed about doing, anyway. Not anything like climbing Mt Everest, becoming a rocket scientist, or winning Miss America. I have slightly more modest dreams. I'd like to finish a good novel (writing it, not reading it, which if I didn't do so much of, I might have time to write my own...reading's an addiction, I know, but it's slightly less expensive than coke.) I'd like to learn to play golf. I'd like to learn to play the guitar. These are all things that I've wanted to do for 3-15 years now, and I feel I would probably gain much pleasure form all 3. So why don't I just do it? Well, you know, there's never enough time, and there things going on, and there's the Kid, and work, and, and, and, and, and....I'm lazy and scared. Too lazy to get my shit together and make time in my admittedly busy schedule to do something for myself, because if I did it, I'd have to stop dreaming and wanting and bitching about it. And too scared, because what if I did it and was no good at it? Then I would know and I couldn't have the fantasy about what my life would have been like if I did it. And then, even worse, what if I did it and was good at it and ENJOYED it? That's scary. What would I do if there were no barriers to happiness? And are there any now, really, other than the chains of my own mind?

Hey, wait a minute. This is getting way too deep, and I don't have my waders. I'm not prepared to deal with self-help existential angst today without feeling nauseated.

So let's talk about the guitar I think I want. Seagull S6. Great reviews, good resale potential, solid construction. The problem is that I know how I want my guitar to sound, but I can't play yet (that's why I'm BUYING a guitar, duh), so how do I go about purchasing one without getting totally ripped off, looking like a total ignoramus, or both? There are also some good deals on EBay, but I am wary about buying a guitar online and having it shipped from Kalamazoo sight unseen...what if something is wrong with it? Even if $200 is a fucking awesome deal, it's all for naught if you get merch that isn't what was advertised...or am I just trying to create more roadblocks to my bliss???

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaah! Make it stop, make it stop! Get the New Age therapist out of my head!

Must go read Goats archives now...

Sigh. Much better now. There's nothing that Satanic chickens and randy goats won't cure.


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