I went to a party Friday night, and I was so proud of myself for so many reasons, namely because:
1. I talked
2. I talked
3. I talked
And I never had to pull out any weird tricks or offer to show everyone my extensive pet rock collection to fill time. In fact, normally I use a lot of “uh’s…” to give the appearance of speaking without actually doing it, but this time I don’t think I used the word “uh” at all. Except maybe once when someone asked, “Do you watch American Idol?” and I said, “Why, yes I do.” and they said, “So what did you think of Brittany what’s-her-name, the hot NBA dancer who made it through to Hollywood week?” and I said, “UH…I don’t think she’s hot. And as a matter of fact, I and the rest of the female population tend to not like people with all her perfect perfectness and there’s exactly a one-million percent certainty those things are fake and here let me pick up your eyeballs for you because they’re hanging on the floor.”
Me: Totally jealous of NBA girl. Think it was too obvious?
American Idol Judges with the exception of J-Lo: Another eyeroll. Because every time someone shows up in a bikini (remember THAT girl three seasons ago??), or blonde extensions and a large set of…teeth, they sail through to Hollywood week. It’s so unfair to the rest of us who drove twelve hours to try out with nothing but talent, a ukulele, and a pair of scuffed penny-loafers and were sent back home. Whatever, Randy Jackson. What-eh-vah.
Anyway, then someone got up and demonstrated a dance (I’m off my rant and back to the party now), and then I tried to dance. Well…it was more like I cocked my hip slightly to the side for one-eighth of a second on my way to the bathroom, but in my head I was totally Getting Jiggy With It. Too bad no one could see, because it was an impressive sight to behold. And then after I finished my business, I sat back down and sipped my water, because my hip hurt from that single awkward movement.
Growing old is sucky. And public dancing is more painful than public speaking for the socially awkward. **points fingers to self**
And then once home, it took me forever to go to sleep. And when I finally did grab a few hours, I woke up and read this and wanted to take to my bed for the rest of the day:
Heidi Klum and Seal are getting a divorce.
Y’all, if those two can’t make it, is there any hope for the rest of us? I mean, for the past seven years, they’ve renewed their wedding vows EVERY YEAR. AND they spend thousands on the ceremony. AND they go on a honeymoon to celebrate. On the other hand, I’ve been married almost nineteen years and we’ve yet to renew anything but our driver’s licenses, and that happens only every four years. So if you do the quick math, that means they’ve beat us in renewals by three. And to make things worse, a driver’s license costs only twenty-five bucks. They spend THOUSANDS. And they’re getting a divorce.
Which basically means none of us has any hope.
And I was so depressed.
But then I chugged a bunch of coffee and that somehow made everything better. And after that pick-me-up, my husband and I decided we could stick it out a little longer. No bag-packing necessary. Because for us, nothing says commitment like a Grande Caramel Macchiato.
So now that my marriage was saved, I rented a movie—Valentine’s Day. Which contrary to its deceiving name, took me right out of the loving mood. How the same group of people produced New Year’s Eve (which I really liked) and this movie (which was Lame to the capital L-A-M-E) is beyond me. Because when the most interesting story line involves Taylor Swift and the jeans-short-wearing, shirtless Twilight werewolf who is coincidently also named Taylor (how did they date in real life with this oddity between them? Because if I had ever been asked out by a guy named Amy, I think I would have said no. Although my rejection might have been the least of this poor guy’s problems) you know the movie can’t be good.
And it wasn’t.
So as the Klum’s and the Seal’s have sworn off marriage, I have now sworn off movies.
At least movies starring shirtless werewolves. At least until the final installment of Twilight releases. Because I’ve watched all the good, the bad, the really bad, and the way-too-whiny-to-sit-through others, so I’ve got to finish. Because I see things through to the end. I don’t give up. I don’t quit.
Nor, apparently…do I dance. But that’s all about to change.
Because I’m trying out for the NBA thingy tomorrow. I already have my Tylenol packed and ready to go.
Until next time—