It’s much easier for me to wallow in my perfected exaltedness when I avoid any contact with the outside world that might accidentally expose me for the mediocre reality I am. For example, I might catch myself in a small chuckle, thinking, that was a funny thing to say in a blog Yael. Or: If I wasn’t you Yael, I might even read your blog. (Wait, no I wouldn’t.)
Then someone has to come along and ruin my delusions. In the blogging example, it always takes the form of an actually funny, well-written, smart and emotionally engaging blog. Sarah (no, not that Sarah) sent this one my way: http://thepioneerwoman.com/ (which of course I am potentially the last known human being on earth with a computer to have not already seen it). And it was the perfect excuse for spending an entire Friday night reading about how city girl Ree met a cowboy in a bar and they fell in love and married and had four kids and live on a cattle ranch. And it just makes you think: Shit. I didn’t marry a cowboy. I forgot to put that on my list of attributes. The list was already so damn full with things like flosses and understands mutual funds.
But believe me, she KILLS you with this stuff. These photographs of landscapes and people and outfits that don’t even look real. And long, drawn out vivid descriptions of lusty cowboy loving on a front porch of a ranch at dusk with silence broken only by ranch sounds.
And it just makes me kind of have a little bit of a mind wander: What if I was with a tall man, with biceps, and rugged hands- someone who could lift me up without gasping and bringing to my attention that we actually border on being the same weight as one another? In all fairness, this dreamy look that accompanies the daydream is no doubt the same one Bryan has when he thinks: Bigger boobs for her. God, that’s all I ask. Please. Bigger boobs. I have always paid my taxes, called my mother and given up my subway seat to the elderly. Please?
But holy I never knew I could fantasize about a cowboy.