What we're made of.

I’m supposed to be writing right now, but just not here. I have a story to start and finish for work. But nothing in me wants to begin or end it. And so, I have been bitten by the procrastination bug. This is a strange feeling as I am a typical type A overachiever. But not today, I guess. I’d rather be just about anywhere. Outside. At home. At the mall. At the dentist even. I am tired and my muscles are sore and my back hurts and my coffee is half gone. I drank it too fast today. I want to take a walk or a run, I want to clean my house and cook a gourmet lunch to be followed by an ice cream dinner. I’d probably crush up reduced-fat Oreos to add to my ice cream. It would be even better if topped with whipped cream. Yes, I would probably top it with whipped cream and a cherry although I know how maraschino cherries are made now, and I’ve sworn them off. But maybe just this once, I could have one. Then, I’d sit on my purple couch with Gus in my lap and I’d watch television. Probably some Food Network followed by a little Fuse and then maybe some CNN or something. After a balanced meal of television viewing, I’d retreat to my bedroom where I would journal and write poetry, all while Gus slept peacefully on my lap. I’d write the best poem ever and it would move even me to tears and then, I would read it to Nick, who would cry also. He then would memorize it and repeat it to his friends and co-workers and then they would do the same until eventually, it got inside the head of someone at The New Yorker or Esquire or The Atlantic Monthly and they would want to contact me, the author, because someone with such a beautiful economy of words can’t be ignored. They would call a week later with a job offer and a relocation package to New York. Nick, Gussy and I would be swept off our feet by the offer, sell our cottage-like house, our cars and our sanity and move to the big apple where just going to the grocery store is kind of a big ordeal. We would forget what grass and trees look like and Gus would rarely have the chance to run free. He would become a condo dog, and we would become condo people. We would place our trash in a dumpster at the end of each day and we wouldn’t think twice about dropping $9 for a beer. We would walk or take a cab everywhere, even to dinner and we would swiftly become different. We would have different jobs and different scenery to look at. We’d have a different ceiling over our heads and a different comforter, we’d have a strange, new kitchen and a strange, new mortgage payment and we’d also have new friends and a new life. We’d be different people, all New Yorked out and such. And while it’s fun to dream about, I’m not sure I’d ever be able to leap the bounds in between the Midwest and Manhattan, to step over the cultural divide that makes living here and living there so intensely different. I might be able to forget about what actually makes a maraschino cherry long enough to ingest one, but I’m not sure I could forget my life here in order to just leave most of it behind. I’m a Midwest girl and, I fear, I will always be.