Even though I am in writer’s hell—the in between— that doesn’t stop my imagination from creative license. The agent offer letter isn’t something I’ve lived through, but I suspect squealing like a school girl, clinking crystal flutes, shopping for faux fur and gold lamé sling backs to wear while parading around my writer’s room and practicing my acceptance speech for the Academy Award I’ll receive from the movie that follows fifty-two weeks on the New York Time’s Best Seller list.
As I was dressed and ready to party I hopped the dream cloud from the speech rehearsal to the after party where I was knocking knees with Hollywood’s sexist, making chit chat, laughing, and being mysterious when asked about the next book. As Mr. Clooney leaned across Colin to whisper sweet nothings into my ear, the train doors opened at my stop and reality sailed in with a gust of stale underground air.
I stepped off the train and turned to watch the doors come together shattering the illusion. It’s all unknown at this point but as I said, the imagination takes liberties with fate and gravity. Did I mention my body was air brushed to perfection when Colin and I were holding hands?
It was a noteworthy moment so I sent a mental memo down the wires to the little men in my head in charge of writing these things down. My wires crossed in transit. Instead of remembering George and Colin I was in the middle of a flash back traveling at light speed through all those other moments where I was yearning for the next big thing in my life. I couldn’t help but smile when I reached the end of the trip.
In A Hurry
At ten, I counted the days to my teens,
and dreamed of a Playtex padded AA.
At eleven, I yearned to take aspirin and lie flat on my
back atop of my mother’s heating pad.
At thirteen, I dreamed of sitting behind the wheel of
a ’67 mustang, top down, with the wind carrying me along.
At sixteen, there was the boy who ignited a blazing
fire deep in my belly, skin melting into skin filled my dreams.
By eighteen, my mind was swirling with gotta have
now-my first JD and Coke, grown up sex, and credit.
Twenty-one gave me cravings for room service,
lazy mornings in bed with Mr. Maybe, and exotic travel.
Before thirty, I wanted money, a career, and Mr.
he has to the one, a BMW, and a condo at the beach.
At thirty, it was the next promotion, a two-caret flawless
hidden in a blue box, a dress of tulle, and a house on the hill.
Now in my forties I yearn for gravity to stop its siege on
this body, for the days behind to be sharp and not blurred.
Always dreaming forward, wanting tomorrows pre-filled,
believing if only I where there now, then I would have it all.
Now when I look back and inventory the days piled behind me,
I know there is nothing I want more than to be where I am.
Over the years I yearned for what was out of reach,
never knowing I was always where I needed to be where I was.
What is mine now is of my own design, and
the skin around my bones never felt so right.
Loving the skin I’m in won’t stop me from imagining the next stop on the tracks because it’s what I do, I create alternate worlds as I move through my days.