girl fan

Aw, man.

I am in love.

I have a crush on two authors. I have a crush on Oliver Burkeman and I have a crush on Emma Brockes. I want to be their friend. They are funny! And smart! And they both live in New York city. Did I mention that they are writers? Actually, I want to be Emma Brockes – she writes incredible memoirs and insightful and entertaining articles. She’s irreverent and hilarious and fucking smart. But then I realize that I also want to be Oliver Burkeman. He writes about life and death and time management and being mortal. And he’s fucking smart. And then I realize that I’m doing that thing again. That thing where I wish I was someone else. That thing where my circumstances of life, of being and of living do not seem to satisfy me in any meaningful way.

Petulant rant:

I wanna be a writer who lives in New York city!

Stamping feet.

I want to have had a long and illustrious career in writing behind (and ahead of) me!

Pouty lips quivering.

Why didn’t I do that? Now it’s too late!

Arms crossed, huffing out of the room. The Room of Life.

It's incredible how often I wish I was someone else. Part of me wants to be Elizabeth Gilbert. Like 30 million other middle aged clichéd women. Write about your divorce and finding yourself and become a bajillionaire so you can now contiune writing without worrying about an income? Yes, please. If I were a comedian, I’d be Tina Fey. Once, for Halloween, I was Tina Fey Acting As Sarah Palin. It totally worked. A yoga instructor? Adriene Mishler obviously. Keeping it real on the mat maintaining her personality and not getting lost in the yoganess of instructing like some posing wanker. A musician? Alanis Morrissette. And not just because she’s Canadian and from Ottawa and exactly my age but because she’s just totally herself. Actually, ALL of these ladies are totally themselves - as much as celebs can be totally themselves in a scrutinizing world - and of course I don’t know them AT ALL but I am assuming they are all totally themselves because it’s pretty obvious when someone is being authentic. They are genuine, honest and all of their shit is aligned. Or so it seems to me from the outside. ‘Being aligned’ doesn’t mean being perfect or balanced all the time or superhuman. It means only that you are living in accordance with who you are. Which means accepting you who are.

I see the irony about me wanting to be these other people because they are totally themselves. That is wiggedy whack. But there is a weird connection with each of these ladeez (and Oliver!). I see myself reflected in them. What a crazy dinner party that would be: Me having dinner with my projected selves even though they are totally their own people. Being John Malkovich with a twist.

And now a little insult to imaginary injury:

I just finished reading Emma’s latest book. In her acknowledgments she thanks Oliver Burkeman. THE OLIVER IN HER BOOK, HER BESTEST FRIEND, IS OLIVER BURKEMAN. Duh. It took me a minute to put it all together. Aw man. Now I really want to be a writer in New York City who is best friends with Emma and Oliver.

Three’s not a crowd. It’s a triumvirate! A Trinity! A Threesome! But not like that. Unless you want it to be like that and your partner is okay with it (Oliver) and your circumstances of together-not-together-for-parenting allow for it (Emma).

But, truth be told, I’m not interested in that kind of threesome.

My stimulation is mental.

Let’s talk shit about nothing.

It’s everything to me.

And there I go again, in love with others, when I could be falling for myself.