I once ordered a speed reading book online. I read about 15 pages and they took me forever. The book now sits underneath my desk and I frequently think about picking it up. Well, it and the mindful meditation books. I've bought six in the last two months. I suspect they teach you how to eschew capitalism and how to run from retail therapy. I don't need that. For now, spending money makes me happy. It's only plastic. Of course, if mindful meditation can teach me about time management, then I'm back in, because I could definitely use that.
I'd just like to know when we got so fucked up. Because, when you get right down to it, with all this self help available, it's a real wonder we're not perfect. I remember being 18 and thinking things seemed pretty easy -- not super easy, but definitely manageable. And then something happened. Might've been my college boyfriend, who sat on the floor in front of me one afternoon when we were both living in New York and he was two days from dumping me.. again, who stared deep into my eyes and said, "Jesus, Doyle, there's gotta be sadness in there somewhere." I wonder if, in the end, we're just really addicted to drama. Or complaining. Or comfort. Or therapy. In our own way, maybe we have too much time on our hands. Look at me! I'm supposed to be working right now, but I work for myself, so I can always get to it later. I'll just skip yoga.
Yesterday, I walked into two grocery stores with double barrel line ups of men at the floral counters. Super. Depressing. Fellas, don't stand in the line up at the florist's counter on Valentine's Day, looking for a plastic wrapped bouquet personal and unique enough to represent your love. On Valentine's Day, your gesture doesn't count. It doesn't. It's transparent. It is also NEVER unique or personal to pick up a plastic wrapped bouquet from the grocery store. Grocery stores are very impersonal places. Their flowers are overpriced. And impersonal. And they die. Fast. If you want fast-dying, impersonal flowers that are, at the very least, cheaper than your grocery store variety, there's a place on Broadview. Email me.
Also, it struck me, as I watched those snaking lines full of red-eyed, stoic men, that these guys looked very afraid. They looked panicked, under the gun, out of their depth. And fair enough. Because, if we learn through experience, then seriously, when was the last time, ladies, you brought your guy roses? I thought about doing that yesterday and then I thought, no. They die. They're expensive. And I need to get more mindful about the things I'm purchasing. If you don't ordinarily get flowers, I imagine it'd be difficult to truly understand why anyone would want them. They're a gift that requires care from the minute they enter your house. And yet, who's ever had the gifter of their flowers return a day later to snip off the stem bottoms, refill the water and drudge up another packet of those magic crystals? Ladies, Gents, this flower transaction is a bad exchange. They're certainly an unfair exchange for sex, which is kind of what it looks like when they arrive on Valentine's Day from somebody with whom you'd consider that kind of Biblical experience. There are no women in my life who'll have sex for flowers.
There are a few men.
I got a wonderful note from a friend today to let me know that I am just as smart and attractive today as I was yesterday. He is a blind man, so there's that, but he is a wise, wise blind man. A one-eyed oracle, if you will.
Today, it almost counts. Tomorrow, it definitely does. Seriously, you should email me about this place on Broadview.