Thursday, August 04, 2005

Dream Lover so I dont have to alone

I think I want to entitle every post with a song lyric or title.
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Perhaps showing up to work unshowered, in a wrinkled blouse, with my hair in the Lilith from "Cheers" bun, accompanied by no make-up, nor jewelry is the wrong approach to bag myself one of these cute, investment bankers. Maybe I should try some fitting skirts and mini-stilts you other ladies call heels. I figure my constant toppling onto my face will attract one of these young men. I'd be like a damsel in distress, but a dame in a dress.

"Rachael, have you gone nuts? What about Jack, the love of your life?" you might be asking.

What about him? I'm in love with him and worse than that I care about him. And I'm sick of it. It's so friggin draining. I'm tired, people. Tired of caring how he feels; caring if he's happy; if he's happy in our relationship; if he safe; if he's healthy. If he wants to watch Goonies this week. If he's willing to eat brocolli today. I'm exhausted from thinking about him all the time, wondering what he's up to; having imaginary conversations with him about the benefits of brocoli. Having fights in my head about the themes and motifs in "The Goonies." NO MORE!

I need to be a trophy wife. I need an attractive professional, who will work for the purposes of acquiring material possesions, social status, and his parents' love and approval. We can marry. I'll be his wife with that darling little comedy hobby. His friends and collegues will come out to see me do my little skits every now again. They won't get it but will smile politely and drink heavily.

He could pay the mortgage and I could accompany him to business and social functions. We'd be like very civil roommates who have competent sex a few times a week. I could politely listen to his tales of work and drinking with the boys. He could pat me on the head as I tell him how my set went or how my play is coming. It would all be so stressless. I'd go about my day without a thought of him; barely remembering we were married, until I entered our handsome home and saw him there watching the Knicks. We'd nod hello and go about our evenings. Hell, he could screw the pool boy for all I cared (as long as he used protection). Because that's just it--I wouldn't.

1 comment:

Carolyn said...

A few times a week? Just let him cheat on you like all the IB boys do and then you can have your Jack and eat him, too.