There were only two things on my “To-do” list for this Sunday.
1. Go for a run
2. Write a lil something for this blog
I woke up, and though there was a bit of sleep at the corner of my eyes trying to convince me to snooze for a second or two longer, I forced myself to stand up and shake off my covers.
Everything seemed to be going pretty well. I somehow avoided stuffing my face full of waffles so that there would be no pesky side-ache to ruin my exercise goal. I was already in my running attire, hydrated, and ready to go until…
Sex and the City marathon on the television caught my eye.
What is it about this show that can make me stop everything and sigh as I fall further and further into my sofa? I may have moved to a city, but I sure as hell am not sexing this city. Single pringle – that’s me.
Not that the offers haven’t been flowing in.
Over the last five months I have been propositioned by
A homeless man who, after shouting at me that I was “Lookin’ GOOOOOOOOOD,” and that he “like that clothes on you, girl,” went back to digging through the trash. Then looked back up and shouted, “hey girl! I talkin’ to you!”
The neo-natzi young gentleman tweaking on the corner of Haight street with a splatter of tattoos across his face asking me if I wanted to “kick-it.”
And the two men who stood outside the bus and repeatedly shouted “HEY” at me through the window.
Still, surprisingly I cannot seem to find my way into a San Francisco love affair. Other than the slices of pizza I have for Pizza Fridays, I really don’t have a love. I’m not even sure I’m looking for one.
I can’t even imagine liking someone enough to want to talk to them every day. OR somehow managing to find a way to remain attractive to them by resisting the temptation to sit on the couch for 48 hours watching Real Housewives of Miami and then proceeding to talk in a Latina accent for the next day and a half. OR (perhaps my biggest concern) is having a toot time. No, I’m not talking about a train. I’m talking a good ol’ fashioned fart. How am I supposed to do that when I’m interested in someone???
How am I supposed to get past any of that? Is it even worth it? Do I really feel enough of a pull toward someone to go through all the worries that are attached?
Maybe that’s why I enjoy the show so much.
I mean Charlotte literally shits her pants AND found her hubby through “ugly sex.” What’s more comforting to a girl with major bowl and emotional issues than that?
As for icing on the cake, not only is the main character a writer, but she is making an incredibly fictional salary that allows her to saunter around Manhattan in Manolos and Chanel.
AND it gives me hope that there will someday be someone out there worthy of my concerns over toot time. Someone who is worth re-considering my reality TV watching, hoop-wearing, accent talking days (though I probably won’t give them up).
Until then, I’ll just watch the show and fantasize about an unreal salary for my ramblings as well as a man to figure out fart patterns for.