I want a boyfriend. If I put that out in the Universe, will he show up at my doorstep, like my personal trainer showed up in my locker room?
Oh hey, speaking of which, check this out: Last night Nina and I had dinner, and she revealed to me that she never goes to the locker room. “Never,” she emphasized twice. “I just happened to be going somewhere after training that day.” Extra cool points for Serendipity.
But I digress from the topic: Boyfriend on a platter.
“The problem,” says my friend Sarah, “is that you have crazy high standards.” No. The problem is that I have crazy high standards and no social life. Take that for a challenge, Universe!
So tonight is the Cougar Convention for Southern California. Meaning older women and young hot man things all getting together under one roof. I was planning on going. Or to be more accurate, I was planning on not going, becuase the whole “cougar/cub” thing smacks of, no, reeks of, hypersexuality and other non-revolutionary crap.
But then I remembered the young hot man things. And then I was planning on going.
But after a four day valiant battle, this bug kicked my ass. Despite my bug juice and all the conventional, complimentary, and alternative medical crap I’ve been downing over the past few days. Damn bug.
Now I’ve not only got this nasty cough rooted in my chest, but it attacked my vocal chords early this morning. I’m in that on-the-cusp place where, if I keep talking, I know I”ll lose my voice. And if I go to the convention, I”ll keep talking.
Voice. Hot young man things. Voice. Hot young man things.
Body wins. As always. I’ll be kicking back tonight with my bug juice, a bowl of popcorn, and a couple of high-drama videos. Night night.