Today, I am . . .

WRITING.

More specifically, I am . . .

typing, considering, fidgeting, humming, dramatizing, searching, plotting, re-searching, flipping, characterizing, reading, scratching, sipping, staring, wondering, hoping, imagining, gazing, doubting, daydreaming.

I am sorting, carrying, loading, laundering, bleaching, softening, transferring, drying, hanging, folding, putting.

I am soaping, poufing, exfoliating, shaving, lathering, rinsing, repeating, moisturizing, revitalizing(?), deodorizing, applying, lining, smudging, shadowing, blending, powdering, styling, spraying, selecting, dressing.

I am brushing, rinsing, spitting, re-rinsing.

I am gathering, slathering, chopping, shredding, assembling, folding, chewing, swallowing.

I am boiling, infusing, sweetening, slurping.

I am clicking, skimming, checking, chuckling, surfing.

I am dusting, vacuuming, straightening, wiping, emptying, hauling.

I am watering, fertilizing, mowing, deadheading, retying.

I am avoiding, distracting, pretending, procrastinating.

Exactly What I Need

Feeling down today, out of sorts, sticky. I wish I was doing something else, but I’m not really even doing anything right now. I should be working on my next chapter. Instead I’m surfing. I just surfed across an ad for an online article:

TOP 10 Internet Home Business Ideas You can Start and Run in Your Underwear

So I considered my underwear. Not just today’s foundation garments, the entire contents of my underwear drawer. No wonder I’m feeling down — I need new underwear! I actually have two drawers: one for bras, one for panties. Oh, and one for long underwear, too.

When I think about underwear, and I usually don’t, I think about underwear with names: bikini, boxer, thong, boyleg, tap, teddy, camisole, chemise, corset, bloomer, petticoat, tanga brief. Maybe that’s my problem My underwear doesn’t have a name. It’s just the regular kind. Not fancy. Not wildly colorful. Not complicated. Not itchy-scratchy. Not covered in rhinestones or diamonds.

If I had Victoria’s Secret lingerie, I’d suddenly grow 3 inches taller and lose 50 lbs. My life would be … well, I guess it’d be different somehow.

I’d eat exotic food.
I’d drive a tiny red sportscar from Italy.
I’d carry a designer dog in my designer bag.
I’d wear pointy shoes with high heels that hurt my feet.
I’d evade paparazzi.
I’d drink poufy drinks from glasses with long stems. On the veranda.
I’d comb my bangs from the other side.
I’d send my laundry out.
I’d blow kisses to my adoring fans.
I’d wave to all the little people from my balcony.
I’d fly First Class (or on my private jet).
I’d shop in posh shops on Fifth Avenue.
I’d read important books.
I’d render opinions.
I’d think deep thoughts.
I’d protest the mistreatment of the mistreated.
I’d initiate trends.
I’d tend my garden.
I’d expect doilies.
I’d take tennis lessons.
I’d hope for world peace.
I’d wear dangly sparklies.
I’d cultivate a throaty laugh.
I’d dab my tears with monogramed hankies.
I’d sleep on 1,000 threadcount linens (not sheets – linens).
I’d lunch. And sup.
I’d twirl my wine before sipping to ensure it demonstrated legs.
I’d beg off, instead of canceling.
I’d offer my regrets.
I’d assume airs.
I’d extend my condolences.
I’d decline.
I’d become inclined.
I’d speak with “h’s” in the middle of my words, “Dah-ling.”
I’d deliberate.
I’d dabble in the arts.
I’d condone actions.
I’d enter grandly on red carpet.
I’d wear gloves, and maybe hats.
I’d sit up straight, with my legs together and ankles crossed.
I’d retire to the next room.
I’d pick up my pen and write my next chapter.

Well, now I know exactly what I need.