Time to find a new career?
Writing this column is finally starting to catch up with me. I’m hoping this feeling of doom is temporary, like a bad hair day or PMS or a zit or a bad dream. The truth is, I’m feeling a little beat down.The other day, an old friend of mine from college called me from New Orleans to tell me he read my column about the gondola car. He left a message that said, “I didn’t make it through all the way because I kind of lost interest after a while. I like your short columns better.” I haven’t had the chance to call him back yet to tell him all my columns are exactly the same length. Then my friend John requested that I go back to my old list format. He said it’s easier for him to read when there are bold headlines in between to break it up. “Otherwise, they’re kind of long,” he said.What complicates that issue even further is whenever I think something I wrote is so bad that I’m embarrassed to send it in is when people seem to love it the most. I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve cringed while hitting the “send” button but done it anyway because someone is expecting me for dinner or it’s time for my nightly bath.On the rare occasion I think a column is good or it makes me laugh out loud, it either gets me in trouble or no one responds to it at all. I try to keep my ego out of it, but there are times when I can’t help but feel dejected. It’s like one of those nights when you want a guy so bad you’ll shave everything including your kneecaps, only to watch him go home with someone else. (Girls don’t shave their kneecaps unless they mean business, especially those little dents beneath them, which are cuts waiting to happen. The back of the ankle is another only-when-absolutely-necessary area. You get the idea).To make matters worse, it seems like every 30-something Jewish girl in Aspen is writing a column these days, which makes me feel like being a writer is more of a symptom than a gift. I’m starting to think maybe I should do something more original or unpredictable, like start training to be an Olympic discus thrower or maybe I could try my luck at hurdles or basketball. I’ve always dreamed of being a drummer, like Animal from the Muppets. It would be so cool to be in a band and play at the Belly Up and wear lots of pink. That would be my trademark. Maybe I could even get a pink drum set. I think I’d like the whole rock star lifestyle because I would never have to wake up early. After last week, I was kind of thinking I want to be a gay man. My old friend Listle came up from Denver with her gay friend David. I was a little nervous because the last gay friend Listle introduced me to was this rabid, bitter hairdresser who tore me to shreds with his beauty and fashion advice. “Honey, what is up with your skin?” he asked. “It looks like it’s been scrubbed by a nuclear reactor. It just couldn’t get any redder.” Then it was, “At least wear a little mascara, please. Your eyes are small enough as it is, not to mention deep-set. You have to think outer corners, darling, outer corners!” By the end of the night, I was fighting back tears and ready to book at least a week at that plastic surgery retreat in Aspen.David wasn’t like that at all. He was sweet and fun and the three of us had a blast together. We did ladies lunch at The Little Nell (my favorite), drank lattes and went shopping. David spent more money than I would ever dream of, which was almost as fun as spending it myself. Then he met all these cute boys outside Caf Ink and ended up totally hooking up with this hot Italian guy from Miami who admitted he had a nose job. We all went out for breakfast, and I have to admit I was jealous with all their smooching and cuddling. These guys know how to have fun, and better yet, they seem to understand one another. I didn’t see anyone crying or going, “When will I ever seen you again?” They’re all super good looking, super sexy and super horny and it seems to work for them. Mayor Helen, can we please organize something like that for straight girls? Snow Bunny Week? If Aspen Peak wants to jump on board with me again, I could organize a kick-ass bunny event for all, with ears and cottontails and everything. Screw progress. Let’s go back to exploiting ourselves, Playboy-style.Maybe I’ll go back to school and get my master’s degree so I can have a real job, a real profession. I could get a whole new wardrobe with slacks and blazers and pointed toe pumps and fancy eyeglasses and have a more tailored look, a more tailored life. I could change my whole image like Angelina Jolie and go from party girl to save-the-world-girl. I would travel to third world countries and read to children and give them new shoes and help them clean their village.Maybe I’ll become a yoga instructor and get a tattoo in Sanskrit on my lower back. I should probably think about asking my shrink to up my dosage or consider taking up a new hobby, like knitting. Better yet, maybe I’ll just stick with the drummer idea, and continue to march to my own beat.The Princess could use some love. Please send sweet e-mails only to firstname.lastname@example.org
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