Wednesday, January 26, 2011

K's alter ego 
My whole life I have confused my fantasy world with that of reality.  For example, I really only realized how short I actually am (5 ft. one and a half inches) when I turned like 35.  Just like one of the chihuahuas that barks ferociously at the big dogs, I had no idea.  You would have thought that marrying a man who is 6 foot three would have cured me of this, but you'd be wrong.  In fact until maybe three or four years ago, I had been buying clothes out of the Victoria's Secret or J Crew catalogs based on the idea that for $59.99 I could somehow purchase the rosy cheeked athletic body with the giraffe legs that came with the sweater.  Now I know to look my personal best that I have to buy skirts that stop at the knee, tops with a defined waist and necklines that plunge just a bit, but that is another story.

My alter ego also is the type who packs up in two seconds for a spontaneous last minute trip to Paris for the weekend and not the real me that spends four years planning for our move to Italy, down to the classic wardrobe, the white linens, and the robin's egg blue suitcases. Therefore, when on Saturday I found myself in my pajamas on my hands and knees again, re-doing our floors for the fourth time (once with large grain cement, once with small grain, once with clear sillicone, once with the white flexible kind) so that the flea story could really be put to rest and having to come up with an excuse in terrible italian for why we couldn't join some new friends who were inviting us for a picnic on the beach in Viareggio -- I felt really kind of down, that is super giu'.

In real life I still get kind of agoraphobic at times, suffer with a kind of hyper awareness about what I imagine people think of me, and think that dessert will fill the void for sweetness that was lacking in my childhood.  Still when  F opens the curtains every morning and outside looks like a film set, I feel like I need to put a renewed effort into getting out there and finally living each day fully.  I am praying for the time in the immediate future when I get enough sleep and find a great fulfilling exercise routine and have a little hop back in my step and can really do this dreamy italian life up the way I want to.  The other day T joked that my life was not a mockumentary, it was a mife -- a mock life.  Ouch. Out of the mouths of babes . . . as they say.  So I'm starting now.  Watch, as they say at Bravo, what happens.

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