Gimme, Gimme

Last weekend, after a grueling workweek, I came home to a brand new plasma TV. It was big, impressive and totally expensive. "But it was on sale," my boyfriend informed me -- as if I was supposed to get excited over the $200.00 savings on the $4,000.00 bill. "But we don't need it," I rationalized. "our TV is perfectly fine," This concept seemed foreign to him. Why settle for fine when you can have extraordinary?

After much debate we settled in front of our new TV for a night of silent viewing. Much to my chagrin, on my plasma, larger than life, was a certain nameless actress who had recently undergone much unnecessary plastic surgery. It seemed I was surrounded by a world hungry for the next best thing. My theory is, "If it ain't broke, why fix it?" Why is it we are compelled to have something just because it exists? Can we be satisfied with a terrific TV, a fine face or a spectacular self? Does more mean better, or just more?

Bachelors of Living

Having been on the ten-year college plan for about twelve years with no degree and mounting debt, I've begun to notice a few things about higher education. Books are expensive, classes are long and the most valuable thing I've learned is how to cheat better. In a time when bachelor's degrees are the new high school diploma and forty is the new twenty, it seem being a student for life is totally chic. What isn't so chic is how education fails to prepare people for the real world. In the attempt to make students well rounded by forcing them to perform quadratic equations and to decipher Shakespeare's psyche, we've lost track of what is the most important aspect of success -- happiness. As I near degree completion and prepare to head out into the wide world of life I have to wonder if Einstein's theory of relativity is relative to anything, and if "e" does in fact equal "mc" squared, Y is there so much misery? Does higher education equal a higher propensity for happiness? Are the fundamentals of learning fundamentally different from the fundamentals of joy, and if so, why aren't we taking more classes in deciphering our selves?

Merging Traffic

Last Friday night I had a date with my friends to see the traveling production of the Broadway smash Rent. We had decided earlier in the week that we would all meet in front of the theatre twenty minutes before the show began since each of us was coming from a different part of town. I was the closest to the theatre and therefore had the most time to tinker with my evening's ensemble -- after much debate about which tie to wear, I headed out the door with plenty of time to spare.

Life was good, my hair was perfectly coiffed, my shirt was neatly pressed and my teeth were sparkling white. Everything was going as planned until I came to a construction zone. Traffic was at a standstill as three lanes tried, unsuccessfully, merging into one. As time ticked by and my crisp shirt wilted I became more and more frustrated. Was it really necessary to close off two lanes when only one was being worked on? It seemed unlikely and I was certain the world was out to get me personally.

I finally arrived fifteen minutes late and with no friends to greet me. As I stood in the back of theatre cursing my friends and unable to see act one, I wondered if merging lives was like merging traffic -- slow and not necessarily fruitful. When lives converge there are bound to be times when things don't go as planned; when this happens, should we call it quits and watch the world pass us by, or do we wait out the first act and hope the second is stellar? Should we consider these bumps in the road as mere frustrations or as signposts for future improvements? When conflicts arise, do we go with the flow, or exit stage right?

Vice Grips

My friend Tom has what I would call a slight addiction problem. Nothing serious like crack or crank or any other horrible "C" drug, he is, however, prone to buying TV shows on DVD that he can't always afford. Is it really necessary to purchase the complete twenty-disk box set of Sex and the City just to get the previously unavailable bonus disk which probably features commentary from season six's dog groomer and camera B's out takes of New York City taxi drivers? I think not, Tom thinks otherwise.

It's not as if I live a vice free life. I have been known to harbor a secret stash of home decorating magazines and unopened books featuring the words "whole self" in the title In fact, if left to my own devices, I would forgo necessary heart surgery for lunch with my fabulous friends at fabulous restaurants and have fabulous conversations featuring the word "fabulous."

We all have vices of some sort or another. It may be clothes, or books, or 12-step programs, or something more dangerous and secretive. But how do we know when a vice has moved from a curious notion to an all-consuming entity? Is it safe to have a vice -- even a petty one -- if we know that at any given moment it could spiral out of control and leave us in an un-fabulous poor house? Do our vices have a vice grip on us.

After Ever After

Last week was the Olympic trials for swimming, and as much as I enjoy a nicely built man in a Speedo, I couldn't help but feel sorry for the poor chaps giving it their all only to have their dreams dashed as they reached the wall milliseconds behind the winner. The losers dragged their weary bodies from the water only to return to their usual lives hoping next time things would be different. As for the winners -- they prepared themselves for rigorous training and lean diets. All this competition made me realize how much we compete everyday of our lives. We dress for success, train for the job and diet to snag a partner, and as with the Olympics, some of us win and some of us don't. It makes me wonder what the point of it all is. Even if you win the gold, land the job and find the mate, you still have to return to life in progress. Now what? What do we do after we get what we've been striving for?

A Would Be Life

My friend Teri is a talented singer / dancer / actress who has toiled away for years in local theatre and caravan productions for everything from Shakespeare to Mel Brooks; she's even been in a few local commercials hawking fresh produce and used cars. Her real life is one of an insurance agent and two-time divorcee. In high school Teri was voted most talented and most likely to succeed. We all kew she was goint to be a star, light up the silver screen, marry a director and have her name splashed across the tabloids declaring "Young Starlet Found Boinking Hunky Gardner." Instead, she's been boinking her chunky boss and composing her company's news letter -- not quite the success story she had planned. It seems as though fate has not smiled upon dear Teri even though she has the goods to be great, while other, less gifted actors, flourish in cinema. I won't name names, but I will say it certainly must help to have a famous parent. This makes me wonder if it's what you know or who you know that really matters? If Teri had been the daughter of an acclaimed actress would she be accepting an Oscar instead of overtime? Would she be making millions of dollars instead of a measly salary? And. . . would she put in a few good words for her old pal, me?

Hunting for Help

I've always prided myself on being self-sufficient. I don't mind my meager existence because I know I can afford it. This isn't to say I wouldn't trade my hubris for the chance to marry an independently wealthy older man who spends his time doing business in China's asphalt jungle -- in fact, I'd like it if he frequently roamed far from home. How else am I supposed to ignore his sixth toe or age spots or whatever other ailment would befall my cougar companion.

Since this wealthy prey appears to have escaped my clutches I must do whatever is necessary to make ends meet. Sometimes this involves skipping my morning brew or lunchtime cocktail, other times it means disconnecting cable once my three months free trial has expired. And sometimes, as was the case last week, I am forced to give myself my own bikini wax. This task is rather difficult as it involves many awkward angles, but I am preternaturally flexible and should have had little problem removing any unwanted hair. All was going well until an overzealous tug pulled something in my back. For two days I lay in bed admiring my perfectly coiffed landing strip and watching Animal Planet. All this time alone got me wondering if self sufficiency is such a great thing. In nature some animals go it solo while others live in packs; each grouping filling their niche and becoming perfectly adapted to their environment. But what about people? Are humans meant to be lone hunters or cohabitants? Can we be a little of each? Can a lonely hunter ever live peacefully among the embittered hunted?