Sour Cherries

If life is a bowl of cherries, I'll have the melon, please. With all due respect, Erma Bombeck had no idea what the pits could possibly look like, unless she was ever twisted enough to wake up one morning and try on bathing suits she had ordered online. At least the day promised to be cold, bitter, and miserable anyway, so I didn't ruin a perfectly good one.

Recently, one of my yoga teachers (who is way too young to be handing down advice of any kind to a bunch of middle aged women) offered up an uncharacteristically sage observation: we are all a little crooked and a bit twisted. (Has he seen me in a bathing suit?) Well, talk about hitting the well-manicured nails on the head, he certainly got that one right. Did I honestly think the sight of my spudly form in bright colored two piece bathing suits at five in the morning would inspire anything other than thoughts of suicide? At least I had a pounding headache and was so bleary eyed I couldn't really see, so the crooked juxtaposition of lycra on potato flesh had a bit of a Picasso-esque effect, which in some circles is considered great art. There I go again -- looking at the frigging bright side!

But not for long; let's get back to that rotten pile of cherries. As if the bathing suit incident wasn't enough to drive me to smash every fruit bowl I own into the wall, my favorite cherry of all has turned -- by her own admission -- sour. Cherry, my loyal blog fan and steadfast cheerleader, has begun sucking out her own pits and spitting them at me. Hmm, maybe it's that time of the month and she's just feeling a little overripe and fleshy.

The little tart called me a delusional romantic! Gasp!. I'll give her delusional, but romantic? Has she gone fruity? In a startling email, Cherry took issue with my optimistic take on the old folks dining together in complete silence:

Jill -- When did you become such a delusional romantic?? The old folks probably aren't talking to each other because they know the other can't hear and will forget what is said anyway, so why bother. They walk out holding hands or walking close to each other for extra balance.

xoxo

The Sour Cherry ??

Cherry is usually pretty rational, but this time I think someone has twisted her stem a bit too tight. Romantic, my ass. It's called self-preservation. I invite Cherry to view herself in the mirror in the wee hours of the morning in bikinis and try to envision anything better in her future than silent physical proximity. I certainly don't want to hear what the guy looking at me from across the table has to say, especially if he's had the dubious pleasure of the bathing suit view. Of course he's going to be off balance, with the stuff he's seen. Sure, the everlasting fireman fantasy remains in the back of my twisted mind, but let's get real; if a hunky firefighter saw what I saw in the mirror this morning, he'd be pouring gasoline on me and shoveling glowing ashes my way. And I guarantee you his hose would not be pointing anywhere in my direction.

My dear Cherry -- Yes, I'm delusional about a lot of things, but romantic? No way. Just realistic. Sure, reality bites sometimes, but I know full well when it's going to bite me in the ass, and I've learned how to protect myself: aim low. So when my idea of a happy future is having the great love of my life sit silently across from me saying nothing, I know it's just because he has nothing nice to say. Sure beats the shit out of the truth. And there is nothing delusional or romantic about that, my friend. It's the real deal. xoxo, Jill