As I walked my tardy 8-year old to school today, without makeup or matching socks (me, not him), I thought for a moment how different my life would be if I were any of the many Real Housewives on Bravo TV.
There’s the obvious: I would have taken the time to look in the mirror. I might have done a better job brushing my teeth. And instead of returning home to pitch story ideas as a needy freelance writer, I’d probably be jumping into a Town Car getting whisked off to my stylist’s before having an early lunch in a fabulous, vacant restaurant with a former best friend I’d be attacking before dessert arrived. Actually, we probably wouldn’t order dessert. Just another round of Pinot Grigios.
And, of course, I’d wear high-heels daily, instead of those tone-up sneakers that keep tripping me into puddles. Or dog poop.
I’m sure my hair would be lighter. And my boobs would be bigger. I’d have glowing skin, the right shade of lipstick, and sense enough to get the lines botoxed out of my forehead.
I’d meet my friends continuously for cocktails. I’d throw dinner parties with celebrity chefs. We’d eat off matching plates and drink from glasses without cracks or chips. Somehow I’d have access to outdoor space, with an open-air kitchen and a working fireplace. Life would be one, long steady-stream of social engagements and air-kisses.
Of course, that wouldn’t leave much time for laundry or homework checks. And I probably wouldn’t feel comfortable sneering so much for the camera or ripping a handful of hair-extensions out of another mom’s head at the playground.
Oh well, a girl can dream. But for now I have to figure out what to make for dinner. That celebrity chef keeps forgetting where I live.
