It’s been a while since I’ve talked about my butt, hasn’t it? Well, since my procedure in early February and the complications that followed, I’ve had another procedure, to remove the tissue that formed after one complication exploded. Sheesh. Yesterday the doctor pulled the stitches out. I was so nervous and sweaty going in, that when he asked me to pull my cheeks apart they kept slipping out of my grasp, so he had to kind of elbow his way in there.
And thus, my life since February, aside from going to New York a few weeks ago, has pretty much been about fiber, and not much else. Oh, and love. It’s awfully convenient during this convalescence to have a boyfriend on the other side of the planet. There’s no pressure to actually use any part of my body other than my fingers, which type away countless passionate emails to my sweet furry foreigner.
Having never met, there’s this part of me, the part that has seen maybe too many episodes of Oprah, that wonders if this is all too good to be true. I imagine myself on The Saddest Episode of Oprah, the one about women who sign over their mutual funds to serial polygamists, my friend Susan reading my missives to the far corners of the earth, illustrating the purity of my love and gullibility, tears streaming down my face, the audience sniffing, Oprah carefully dabbing a tear so as not to smudge her mascara.
But then I immediately think that the reason for this absurd paranoia is that I’ve found my total fantasy man, and it’s just not part of what I had planned, or imagined. I’ve never seen this episode of Oprah. I didn’t believe someone existed, or could exist, who not only conforms to every fantasy I’ve ever had, but who could love me so completely, to already pledge himself so fully to me, I mean without even meeting. This kind of love is just so easy. What will I write about now? I usually channel Raymond Chandler in my relationships, not Danielle Steele. Where’s the struggle? Where’s the heartache? The pain? The convoluted and almost impossible to follow narrative? There’s only bliss, now and forever. Our happiness is so entwined. We have envisioned ourselves as such a part of the other’s future that it’s hard for us to be in the present, for the present can only be incomplete without each other. If this is codependence, then I should have been looking for a codependent relationship all this time.
Speaking of Michael Jackson, I’m so fascinated by the contents of Neverland Ranch that are being auctioned off–or were being auctioned off. I’m so intrigued by Michael’s taste. I’ve been flipping though the catalog, was thinking of bidding on some things that look like they were made by the same people who make Jeff Koons’ sculptures. While there are many fine decorative arts pieces, most of the fine art is compelling in the absence of any aesthetic or material refinement. Like what a child with a lot of money would think of as fancy.