The Fantasies

November 26, 2006

The world is a fabulous place.

I never have to balance my checkbook because I always know exactly (to the penny) how much money is there and there is always enough.

I’m always 15 minutes early to work to that I can sit and have a leisurely cup of coffee before setting into my day.

I love my job. It’s the most rewarding job on the face of the earth. I have the opportunity to help others change the course of their lives for the better.

I rarely get into arguments because I’m most always right and when I do argue I most always win. My rhetoric is concise, brilliant and deftly executed.

I always have a witty reply to throw back at anyone who dares challenge my wonderfulness.

I know something about everything which makes me a fabulous conversationalist. Everyone wants to talk with me.

I can quiet any fussy child.

I can also fly, because this is my world.

Unfortunately, it is not the world I live in.

In reality (which is not my favorite word), I’m not the 5′ 8″ woman with golden blond hair past her shoulders, a willowly figure and a dazzling smile. No, instead I’m a 5’8″ woman with some curves. And although my hair is blond, it’s dirty blond. And my teeth are slightly crooked. And I can’t fly.


I’m horrible at balancing my checkbook. Not because I can’t do the math, but because I hate to be reminded of how little money I have.

I’m on time to work. Barely. Most of the time.

I do come up with witty replies, but it’s unusually about fifteen minutes after the other person has smacked me upside the head with their witty comment and left.

In reality, I’m a bitter 21-year-old senior in college working full-time at a job that, on good days, I’m apathetic about and at worse I loath. To top it off, I have no idea what I want to bee when I grow up. This terrifies me.

I take that back. That doesn’t top it off. What tops it off is that about a week ago (and a few days before Christmas no less) my boyfriend shows up, gives me a fantastic pair of diamond earrings and dumps me. And then leaves.

Well, Merry Fucking Christmas.

The phrase that annoys me the most recently is “If it is meant to be, it’ll be.”  Why do people think that that’s a helpful thing to say?  Especially when that’s what everyone says.  I think it’s easy to blame destiny for one’s own failure.

It’s days like today that I can’t help but think that today is the first day of the rest of my life.  I’ve done nothing except be confused for the past week.  I had my life relatively planned out.  I would finish school and marry my boyfriend and become an insanely popular writer.  In the past week, I’ve been dumped, gotten sick, gotten drunk, slept with a friend and have avoided answering the phone.  On the night that I had sex, one of my friends told me not to do anything that I’d regret.  I just laughed.

Speaking of sex, why can guys sleep with eleventy-billion women and be emotionally fine and dandy and a woman can think about sleeping with one guy and be plagued by an onset of emotions for the next six weeks?  My friend Dave can sleep with a girl and then not even think to call her whereas a girl will be pining by the phone just minutes after the guy has left.

Perhaps the thing that bothers me most about the one-nighter is, the next morning (after he leaves) their scent still lingers.  And it stays there for days.  But maybe that’s just me.

Back to my ex, I still love him.  I hate it but I do.  This is the first time I’ve been dumped.  It hurts more than I had anticipated.  In my fantasy world, I envision him coming to visit, mentally preparing himself to let me go.  He’d knock; I’d answer.  I would be in the process of getting ready to go out.  Make-up on, but still in my bathrobe.  As he would launch into his speech, I would walk back to the bedroom to get dressed.  I’d drop the bathrobe to the floor, revealing a fabulously sculpted body.  Lean and lightly tanned.  My skin would still be damp from the shower.  He wouldn’t be able to speak.  I’d turn slightly, coyly looking over my shoulder.  “What were you saying?” I’d ask.  “Nothing,” he’d reply.

I’m eating a chocolate bar and drinking a soda while I write this.  So much for a lean, sculpted body.  (Maybe I do have a lean, sculpted body, but only if you compare me to The Woman of Willendorf.)

My life, as of late, has turned into some sort of conveluted soap opera.  This is interesting because usually I’m  a very rational sort of person.  Ever decision is carefully weighed.  Lately, I just don’t give a damn and thus ended up sleeping with one of my friends.

Now you understand, James has very high standards.  He favors women who are petite, beautiful and brunette.  I’m am none of these.   Not to say I’m ugly.  I fall into the vaguely pretty category.  I’m okay with that.  I could possibly be “hot” if I lost ten pounds, got a tan, and wore make up.  But that would take effort.

Getting back to my point, I never saw James and I in bed together.  In my mind, it just didn’t make sense.  I didn’t even consider it an option until a few hours before it happened.  I don’t think I even wanted the sex, just the touch.  Maybe it’s just me, but I love that feeling of another person’s skin against your own.  Exploring someone else’s body.

I ruined it all.

When it comes down to it, I’m not a very happy person.  I’m just not a big fan of me right now.  My skin could be clearer, my body in better shape.  My attitude could certainly be better.  I spent so much time hiding my flaws I had no time to enjoy anything.

I don’t want to be perfect, but I wouldn’t mind being a little closer to it.

James frightens me.  I could like him.  Really like him.  But I really don’t want to.

After it was over, I was sad.  Not because of the sex.  No, I was sad because I felt so little.  There wasn’t any joy, anger, regret, lust, satisfaction or hope.  Just a tiny bit of pain to accent the night.  I felt hollow.  Whatever it was that made me up had been scooped out and thrown away.  All that’s left are the scraps around the edges.  I look the same to the world, but the precious Anna everyone knows and loves is gone.  I am here instead.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: