oh there’s nothing to lose, and there’s nothing to prove…
…I’m just dancing with myself
Sometimes I feel like I’m being watched. Not in the creepy “I Know What You Did Last Summer Way,” but in the – the world is my stage – kind of way. I am living the life every single girl in every single romantic comedy leads in the first hour of the movie. You know, the first hour is what gets you hooked – it’s what you relate to. They do this so that in the second hour – when the man with the perfectly white teeth and recently plucked eyebrows appears on the scene – and because they’ve made you believe that you could be her in the first hour, you believe you could be her in the second hour. But I’m not here to talk about the second hour.
I came home this evening and perfectly timed – it started raining just as soon as I set my foot out of my car door. I made a dash for my apartment, tripping and almost falling over the neighbors toy car. I waved hello to my other neighbors, who I don’t know, but we both pretend to, and finally let myself inside. It was the best feeling – walking inside, hanging my perfectly white coat on the hook that also holds an apron that I never use and a purse I bought to make myself feel better after a long week.
My day hasn’t been stressful much, just long, and was one of many just like it. I come inside and immediately throw off my (ridiculously cute) heels and change into sweatpants that are too big for me. I walk through my (ridiculously cute) apartment and plug in the Christmas lights that I’ve hung, even though many people won’t be through to see them. My apartment tells the viewer much about who I am – what I love and who I love. It’s at this moment the viewer thinks, man, that place looks like I could live there.
It’s quiet as I sort quickly through my mail and hope for something other than ads and bills, but there is none. As I wash my hands, I hit the soap dispenser too hard and soap flies across the sink right onto my pants and on the floor, and, in a moment of comic relief and a moment of realness, I have to catch myself on the sink to keep from slipping on the soap I forgot about.
And as I’m microwaving my Lean Cuisine (ravioli – it’s the best) and curling up in one corner of my large leather couch with my dinner in one hand and glass of sparkling raspberry champagne (because, why not?) I’m at home and I feel like it, too. The cozy Christmas lights and Charlie Brown tree in the corner make the viewer feel the same, and for an instant, they think, I could be that girl.
Too often I remember only the second half of the movie. But if it weren’t for the first half, the second half wouldn’t mean a whole lot, now would it?