by Melody Bowen
My best friend Gloria is one of those women who makes everything look easy. No matter where she is, what she's doing, who she's with, she's always the same fabulous person. One of those women who can clean her house yet maintain a flawless manicure, who can venture out into the rain without a single frizzy hair, who can spend all day wading in the surf without destroying a perfect pedicure. She's one of those women who has a high-power job -- something that would usually be a real boys' club type of job -- and absolutely excels at it. One of those women who has such a sense of style that you never notice that her suit is Donna Karan. You just notice she looks polished.
Oh, and let's not forget that she's one of those perpetually petite women also. (Perhaps I've written about this part before.) She's one of those women who can eat anything -- no, no, don't misunderstand... anything, anything, A-N-Y-T-H-I-N-G... I'm talking deep-fried grease with a side of fried potatoes, a stick of butter, a bowl of gravy, chocolate-covered sugar bombs, five martinis -- and she never gains an ounce. Not an ounce. She'll be 50 and still have fabulous cellulite-free legs and a waistline roughly the size of the one I had at age 13.
Gloria is one of those women to whom great things happen all the time. No, no... I mean *all the time*. She meets wonderful people everywhere she goes. She opens her mail and discovers that she's been given an unexpected bonus. She stumbles into a sale where she can buy a stunning piece of jewelry or a fantastic new outfit or a gorgeous Coach purse for... oh, say, five bucks.
Oh, and the best part is that she's fabulous, and everybody loves her. (Including me, of course. That's why she's my best friend.) She's nice to everyone. She knows *everyone*. *Absolutely everyone* thinks she's fabulous. I have friends who've met her only once and still ask about her all the time, "How's Gloria? I just *love* her! She's such a great gal..." She's the "pretty friend" we've all had at some point in our lives, the one who turns every head in a crowded restaurant, the one who makes you feel like you blend into the wallpaper, but you love her dearly anyway. The one you'd hate to the core of your soul if only she wasn't your very best friend. She's *that* friend.
Just for one day I wanna be Gloria. OK, maybe I don't want to actually *be* her. (Let me rephrase.) Just for one day I want to be *like* Gloria. Gloria never, ever oversleeps and gets to work at 9:26 in the morning. She never, ever has hair that keeps getting frizzier as the day goes on, hair that just swells and gets larger and larger as the temperature outdoors rises. She never, ever forgets to write down when her phone bill is due and has to cough up a last-minute-and-very-unexpected $224 on a non-paycheck week. She never, ever sits in meetings feeling puzzled because her colleagues are talking about nonsense ("Well, we need to put the hooziwatsit in the cravafriggit and the poggipsies in the talliwickets if we really want to develop a new paradigm..."). She never, ever looks around at work and thinks, "How the hell did I get here? For the love of Dolce & Gabbana, what happened to my career? Didn't I go to Oxford, for goodness sakes?" She never, ever wolfs down a crappy grilled-cheese-and-french-fries lunch at a diner all alone with no one to talk to. She never, ever gets home from work and discovers a 3-inch black stripe of mascara that's been creeping down from her left eye all afternoon. No one ever looks at her apologetically and says, "Wow, I can tell you're a little haggard today. Aren't you sleeping well?" These things never, ever, ever happen to her. Never.
But they all happened to me today. And the biggest bitch of it all -- every last bit of it -- is that it could all be different. I could be that person. I could be a Gloria Girl. Even without a magic wand or major-overhaul-type plastic surgery or a financial windfall of Ed-McMahon-with-a-big-check-on-my-doorstep proportion, I could *be* that person. I could wake up without the need for three alarm clocks. I could refuse to eat another carbohydrate -- ever -- until my waist is eight inches smaller. I could *always* write down when the damned phone bill is due and never forget about it until the last minute. I could tame my curly red mane with a new haircut and stop frightening myself when I look in the mirror on humid days. I could write and publish something more respectable than computer instructions and company policies. I could throw away all my Old Navy jeans and my Doc Marten sandals and replace them with DKNY suits in the perfect color of mocha. I could do every last damn thing to make damn sure I never have another damn day like this damn day.
Dammit, I wanna be Gloria. Just for one day.
Note to self: Stop whining. Tomorrow will be better. (Don't argue. Yes, it will.) Pull yourself up by your Doc Marten sandals, dust off the Old Navy jeans, and get some sleep tonight. Everything will look better in the morning. (Don't argue. Yes, it will. It just has to.)
I've always had a vivid imagination. When I was a little girl, I spent a lot of time alone, but for whatever reason rarely felt lonely. I loved imagining myself as the first woman in space or Wonder Woman's best friend or a professional Solid Gold dancer or the Crown Princess of the Kingdom of Mudpies or a World Champion Tree Climber. I could go anywhere, do anything, all with my imagination, and I thought it was really cool. Come to think of it, I still think it's really cool.
Sometimes -- especially when I've had a couple of fair-to-mediocre-to-downright-rotten days -- I like to keep that fantasy life alive. I try to imagine myself in fabulous places, meeting fabulous people, doing fabulous things. I even have a "fantasy journal" tab in my day planner where I record my adventures. Today I found myself thinking about all of this, all the wonderful things that I've done in my fantasy life, and I thought maybe it would be a good way to give myself a little pick-me-up (and let's face it -- it's a hell of a lot cheaper than therapy). So, just for funsies, here's my "fantasy journal" for today:
This morning, my first book debuted at number two on the "New York Times" bestseller list. [Note: I'll leave the first space for whichever book Dr. Phil is peddling this week. The guy doesn't have hair, so let's let him have the #1 spot.] I flew to New York City to be interviewed on the morning shows. Katie Couric asked me to autograph a copy of my book for one of her children, and a producer surprised me with the news that a Hollywood Producer is optioning my book for a new movie that they expect to make chick-flick aficionados say, "Bridget who?"
This afternoon, I paraglided off the side of one of the largest mountains in Appalachia. I glided peacefully over the tranquil Smokey Mountains in my beautiful pink glider canopy, and I set the world record for the longest sustained paraglide flight. After I landed, I celebrated by uncorking a bottle of Dom Perignon with 100 of my best friends.
Tonight, I sang the national anthem at a Yankees game in front of a sold-out stadium and got a standing ovation. Then the Yankees pitcher lobbed me a couple of balls, and my second swing sent the ball straight out of the park. I trotted around the bases in my four-inch-heeled Manolo Blahnik strappy sandals as the crowd roared with another ovation, and I hollered "Woohoooooooo!" as I crossed home plate.
Note to self: Must buy a fabulous pair of four-inch-heeled Manolo Blahnik strappy sandals very soon, just in case these fantasies should come true.