Wade and I got robbed of the chance to celebrate our anniversary together, so the other night I reenacted the plan by myself. I went to Carbondale, sat alone at the bar at Phat Thai with a glass of red wine for dinner and then went to see 500 Days of Summer.
When an attractive young man sat down alone right next to me, I began daydreaming about the what-ifs and imagined what it would be like to still be single and living in New York City. That led me to one of my favorite movies, After Hours, in which a man ventures by happenstance outside his safe Upper East Side box and travels downtown. All night long he can’t make it back home as he’s thrown into weird, bizarre and sexual scenarios, an idea not too far-fetched for that glorious city. Sometimes I get so depressed that my life of spontaneity is oh so very OVER.
The Fantasy Game
As a true romantist, I tend to drive Wade crazy with my imagination, leading him into fantasy games with questions like: What if we didn’t know each other and I was your waitress at a restaurant? Would we have that magnetic attraction? What if I was your boss at the magazine and you came into my office while I was bending over in a tight pencil skirt? What would you do? What if I worked for you and wore low, sexy tops and flirted with you? Would you be able to keep your hands off me?
Creating these scenarios helps spark the animal magnetism I’ve always had for Baddy, but he isn’t so keen on playing, reminding me that only women fantasize like that. I’m calling nonsense on that one. You?
An Island Escape
With this cooler weather and no time to myself, my passions are resurfacing full force. I’m fed up with the daily mundane tasks of cooking, cleaning and caring for everybody. Did I really sign up for this life? Wasn’t I once a traveler and an adventurer? Didn’t I at one time thrive on the occasional wild romantic interlude with a stranger? Yes, as a matter of fact, I did.
I emailed my oldest sister in Boston, asking her to escape with me to an island, packing nothing but my laptop for writing, bikinis, flip-flops, any necessary fashionable accessories and a few great novels. We would wake up and take a two-hour run on the beach, then fall asleep in our lounge chairs with our hands caressing the soft sand. We could drool and snore loudly with our mouths open, because we’d be incognito, total strangers in a strange land where nobody would know our marital status or that I had three crazy boys running amok at home.
In the afternoons, we’d hang out at the tiki bar drinking fresh boat drinks, talking with the philosophical bartender with degrees in psychology and philosophy and laughing as we objectively analyzed all the nonsense we deal with at home.
At night, we’d put on our sexy sundresses and make a stir at the local dive bar, slam dancing to the local rock band, and when we were done meeting and playing with all the locals, we’d stumble home under the warm tropical breeze, laughing until we cried, like we did in high school.
When we weren’t drinking, running, drooling or reading, I’d write to my heart’s content and figure it all out: life, marriage, kids. And when I got truly good and bored, I’d return home refueled and ready to be the mother I’m meant to be.
What??? A girl can dream, can’t she?
