Imagination is the single person's closest friend. I don't know about you, but wandering through my brain's fantasy hallways keeps me occupied through traffic jams, business meetings, bathroom cleaning, beach walks and appalling lines at the post office.
I don't picture doing any of those specific activities with anyone else, thrilling as I'm sure the right lady would find the daily cat box emptying. It's more the contemplation of whether that woman in the 'Ethnic Foods' aisle at the supermarket would make any difference to my life. Or how come the teller chick at the bank (who looks to be approx. 19) already has a family and an address that's not a Postal Mart box? And am I a different species of male simply unable to communicate with the sex with the interesting body parts?
Imagining is fun - the Powerball this week is $153 million - but acts in the same way as the proverbial grain of sand in the oyster. No, not the one that you bite down on and break your crown - the one than gains layer after layer of something or other, and forms a pearl. Hour after hour of imagining creates a hard shell insulating me from the real world. I'm sure that's the answer. I'm living in a la-la land in my mind, neglecting to ask that woman in the ethnic aisle whether she knows where the hot sambals live.
That's the answer. Spit out the oyster's pearl of imagination and slurp down the salty meat. That's real life. I think.
Being Single Part 1, Being Single Part 2, Being Single Part 4.
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