Sometimes, the fantasy doesn't live up to the reality.
For instance, I am sure George Clooney would cheat on me, and despite our fantastic good looks and fame, we would be miserably unhappy and I would have to sneak cookies past my Pilates instructor, chef, and nutritionist, and then I would feel guilty, and I'd have to go shopping in Italy to assuage my guilt, and then, I would have to buy something for George to make up for the enormous amount of money I'd spent, so I would jauntily jet back to the Villa at Lake Como with a beautiful gift like a Doucati, and have to apologize for my naughtiness and he would forgive me and we would spend the evening together admiring our beauty and watching reruns of Bones on TV in our deliciously soft hotel quality linens.
OK. So, maybe that fantasy has some possibilities.
But there are other disappointments. The fantasy of children is nowhere near the reality. The children don't just drop by in their perfect pajamas, smelling sweet, to kiss us goodnight. They're here all the frickin' time. And they're noisy and want stuff, and ew.
I read today in the Wall Street Journal, courtesy of a posting on Facebook, that bamboo fabric is basically rayon viscose. It is chemically engineered, and must undergo an incredibly toxic process to become a fiber, and is not ecological at all, or biodegradable, or even luxurious. It's pretty much the same stuff as my pretty pink Barbie nightie from when I was four. Disappointment. (Thanks, MS, for the reference).
Porn, too doesn't always work out as planned. In theory, your man is going to find it hot, and you are going to find it hot, and there you'll be, all bothered and desperate for each other and suddenly your sex life will be invigorated and perfect. But what really happens is that the plot is ridiculous and the dialogue so hideously bad that you take turns mocking it. And then, in a close-up, the high def TV reveals the worst complexion any woman has ever had, and all you can think of is the horrific rashes that STDs cause, and then you're both revolted, and turned off, and you turn on football, put your fuzzy socks back on, and try to forget the whole thing ever happened.
Running is a fantasy I occasionally indulge. I'll be all lithe and smooth while out there running in my (of course, new) running clothes. And this time will be different than the last, because I'm in the right place for running. And, I take my ipod and whip my hair into a stubby little pony tail, and take off down the street. And like 200 yards later, I have a stitch, and I've tripped like 4 times on cracks on the sidewalk in front of a crowded stoplight, and I run something like Phoebe from Friends, and the whole thing is best done in private on the treadmill at a speed more approximating a walk.
But today, TODAY. I pressure washed the carport, and oh, it was as good as I imagined. I broke down and bought an electric washer, which is inferior to gas in terms of psi, but superior in terms of storage and loudness, and I put it to use. I washed and bleached the trash can, the recycle bins, the kids plastic outside toys, the steps, the concrete, the decomposing hot tub, EVERYTHING. It's all gleaming. A terrific success. Nothing is stinky or dustbunnied, or leafy, or spiderwebby. It's all just clean. And my feet are pruny, and my pants are soaked, but lo, the carport is clean. And the magical washer has found its place in the shed for the next time I need it to work its wonders of cleanliness. My pressure washing fantasy has been fulfilled.
