Things suck right now. All over. I can’t even let myself think about that.
Instead, I need to devote at least an hour a day to fantasize about what my life should be like right now. The above isn’t a photo of New York City, but it’s as close as my photo library gets. So let’s get this fantasy started:
I live in New York. Probably in the East or West Village, but maybe on Gramercy Park. My apartment, which I can afford, has a working fireplace, a kitchen that is small, small but lovely. It has marble countertops and an ocular window over the sink. The taps are old brass with patina. Of course, I have a small terrace. I fill it with blooms and tomato plants in summer. I have a Siamese cat. His name is Onion.
Or, I have a glass walled apartment in a high rise in the Financial District with a skyline to die for, a gourmet kitchen, and a delightful small terrier pup who goes against character by being calm. Her name is Rabbit.
I have somehow become svelte and single, because husbands cramp your style. I wear leather blazers and thong underpants. I can have biscotti with my coffee in the morning, eat an actual lunch, and have pasta for dinner if I want to. My skin is not crepey.
I work as an editor for a small imprint of a large publishing company, and my writers are all bestsellers, which is how I can afford to own this apartment. My bedroom in the Village is on the third floor, and I see greenery out my windows. OR, I have views of the Statue of Liberty out of my sparkling floor to ceiling windows in the skyscraper.
For fun, I have David Sedaris and John Oliver over for dinner, and I actually know how to make entrees with truffles. In this fantasy, I love truffles and don’t think they taste like dirt.
On rainy evenings, I curl up with my cat/dog and watch old movies on tv while snacking on caviar, which doesn’t taste disgustingly fishy. I am not lonely.
I am probably lonely, so I redo the fantasy and invite my husband in, so we can watch tv together, and also so he can take the dog out at midnight, or he can scoop the litter box. It works either way.
We take walks all over the city, and we love to sit on a blanket in Central Park and drink lattes, because I don’t have arthritis in my knees. We eat brunch in our favorite bistro on Sundays, leafing leisurely through the New York Times. He has pancakes, and I have whatever I want, even donuts. We chat with our hip friends, who are all poets or stand-up comedians.
I am fulfilled. I have three hobbies: I can knit a sweater, I make hand dipped candles, and I use my calligraphy skills to write little notes to my friends. I am never on Social Media. I have a tattoo of a pencil on my wrist. My skin is not crepey.
Every day is a slow news day.
My skin is not crepey.