On the day after a bad day, and there are plenty of those, thoughts scramble inside my head like those rats on the Titanic, desperately seeking higher ground, something positive to contradict the blanketing gloom responsible for those high numbers displayed on my blood pressure monitor. (Yesterday I hit 213/100, a new personal best.)I've tried cheering myself up with the usual upbeat bromides -- your stomach is not in a bag hanging from your belt, there are no pit bulls living in the neighborhood, Hillary Clinton lost the election -- but still I can find myself feeling anxious for no apparent reason. But then this morning, with my BP numbers inching up, up up, I thought of a new one and now I feel better, and here it is: At least I'm not famous!
Imagine the horror. Every single thing you do is photographed and then dissected by the media, that gaggle of muckraking, bloodsucking leeches, and that's being kind. How you look, where you live, what you eat, how much you spend, the clothes you wear, those bags under your eyes, your sagging neck, your relationships, your tawdry past (if you had one), your drug and alcohol consumption (if there is any), the time you slept with your best friend's husband (if you ever did), your decreasing breast perkiness, your expanding waistline, and of course your political leanings. Whatever it is, it's not good in someone's estimation. Or else it's really good, good enough to sell papers, get more clicks, earn higher ratings, tweet about, or somehow turn into cash for some stranger striving to be famous on your dime.
So thank you God, for making me a complete nobody. I'm feeling better already.
You made me feel better that no one cares enough to write about my tawdry past (assuming I had one...)
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