Thursday, December 31, 2009

Visualize this.

Apparently my attempt at business commentary fell flat, with several people kindly suggesting that in the rapidly approaching new year, I stick with what I know. Themes like: cellulite, celibacy, dependency, cake, insolvency, lunacy, rage, spite, revenge, bloating, overindulgence, Catholic bashing, havoc, feelings of inadequacy, lechery, adultery, sloth, pride, lust, envy, men, gluttony, alcoholism, gravity, a desire to murder one's child, greed, extravagance, bowel irregularities at inopportune times, and not-so-divine interventions.

That should take me into mid-February, when fucking Valentine's rears it's ugly cherubic head, and I wake up face down in a pool of half-priced ganache, tears, and vomit. 'Plenty to talk about when it comes to love.

In the meantime, I am ripping a page out of Alex Rodriguez's play book and utilizing the art of visualization as I slide into home plate and 2010. I figure if it works for A-Rod, it'll work for me – in fact – I started last night.

Somehow a half mickey of vodka escaped my household purging, so yesterday I tossed a jug of diet (!) tonic water and a few limes (for scurvy) into my shopping cart loaded with tater tots, chicken strips and all things beige. First of all, you know it's been a bad year when the Christmas bar was stocked with mickeys, but we're movin' on. I went home, threw some beige slop at the little bastard, sliced up a few limes and poured myself a vodka and tonic on the rocks.

Next, I cleared a space on the couch and sat down to begin the art of visualization. Since the only other time or place I'd be idly sipping a vodka and tonic would be on a airplane, I closed my eyes, took a sip, and visualized myself in first class, next to a handsome, witty man who adores me.

Visualizing. Visualizing.

My companion is wearing a well-tailored suit and he smells like vanilla and money. My hand is in his lap under the cashmere blanket, and we are cruising at 36,000 feet, heading someplace warm with a pool, and a tennis instructor named Juan Carlos. The little bastard's back in canoe class watching a movie, because for some reason, I am stuck with him even in my visualizations.

I was about to ask the sky pig for a glass of champagne and a pillow, when the dog barked and my eyes flew open to find me not joining the Mile High club with Alec Baldwin, but very much at sea level on a couch covered with dog hair and boogers (never buy a green couch), wearing filthy sweatpants because my jeans are too tight, sipping a 4-ounce vodka and tonic from a chipped coffee mug, wishing I could, once again, afford a cleaning lady.

New Year's Resolution #1: Work on the whole A-Rod life visualization thing. Picture myself happy and healthy, surrounded by people I tolerate and interesting, profitable work. Picture myself traveling more, laughing more, and stressing less. Visualize playing more tennis, a smiling child, kitchen counter tops that match, and a plumper bank account.

Visualize how fucking businesslike and boring I'd be with nothing to complain about.

Happy Next Year.