One of my cousins is pregnant again, which means that I've been fielding the usual volley of well-meaning but exasperating, "so when is it going to be your turn?" phone calls. I've stopped responding with the usual put-upon sigh and insulted justification of my lifestyle, because I've finally realized that there's nothing to justify. Which isn't to say that I've quit violently rolling my eyes about the fact that some members of my family seem to see me as a character in a not-very-funny romantic comedy, just waiting for someone to roll in and show me that all I need is love and maybe some Valium. It's just that I've always quietly gone my own way and they've always loudly tried to make me quit it, and at some point I've really got to stop caring. That point, I think, is now.
(By the way, I keep meaning to thank all of you who showed up at my apartment on Saturday night only to have me open the door and screech about cake at you for not slapping me silly. I'd have deserved it. This is why I don't eat sugar.)
And anyway, at this exact moment I am incredibly bored with everything in the world, which probably has a whole lot to do with the fact that I am eating candy corn and have not thumb wrestled anyone in weeks. I want to run away to the south of France and change my name to Diana and affect a British accent and a limp for the next six years. I want to read Somerset Maugham stories to hermit crabs and I want to try on all of my clothes and what I don't want to do is have to explain to anyone why I want to do any such thing.
By the way, have I told you lately how much I object to the smell of white tulips? I'm really not a fan.
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