Lifestyle Erosing

"God, has a plan for us all, Ashley," my grandmother once told me. Really? I'm starting to wonder what it is exactly. Am I going to be rich? Famous? Or a broke unemployed loser living in a van down by the river with Chris Farley? God's so-called "plan" is relatively unclear to me. I don't think that he had in mind for me to be the way I am. A liar, a cheat, and a compulsive just about everything. I like to spend money: mine and sometimes other people's through subtle manipulation. I spend mine out of guilt as a strangely sick way to redeem myself. For conning a sweet old lady like grandmother out of a good chunk of money for me to get an education that has not done me a bit of good since I graduated.

I planned to do so much. To conquer the literary world by storm with the great American novel. Yeah right, that's going to do me good if I cannot complete a story. I have not done so in the five years since I graduated from Dartmouth. I had some valiant attempts some promising premises, but they soon sputtered like faulty engineering in an elevator. The ideas slowly ascended to the top floor of completion and rapidly fell to the ground floor in my waste paper basket.

Now, I just bide my time in a pleasantly bland office watching everyone try to make something out of a limited existence. I wonder if and when I'm going to turn into another office drone whose life is confined to the four walls surrounding her cubicle. When did I become another boring creature? My routine is so predictable that the FBI could follow me around for a day and find a root canal from the dentist to be more stimulating. Seriously, I kid you not. I work, come home, and work on getting writing exposure. That's it. I know something will come of my writing career. Only time will tell how much of a success or failure I will be. Instead, I plan on fine tuning my private story into something much more entertaining than the normal routine.

My latest story is more of a personal one where pen and paper should not record just yet. It's still in the early stages and is rather promising. It involves a lot more personal risks with the biggest being trying to venture into the dating scene. I am trying to get to know this guy who I met at Flo's, a bar on 61^st Street. Believe me, I did not expect to meet someone as nice and sexy in a dimly lit bar. The smell of stale beer and cold wings does not ring up romance, usually cheap one night stands with pangs of regret. Thankfully, I am not into tawdry flings.

When I first met Richard, the first thing I thought about was pretending to be a Bond girl next to double o seven himself. He was smooth in his crisp blue Armani suit. Not one stitch of his appearance was out of place. His sandy blond hair was combed back into place with the help of unscented Consort hairspray. (I found he used this when I snooped through his medicine cabinet once among other things.) His eyes are a very pale sage and are fascinating to look at. They tell voluminous stories that he cannot with words. Richard's eyes let me know everything that he's feeling. They light up like forth of July fireworks when I enter the room and show signs of mischief when he attempts to come up with a practical joke to pull on me. Unfortunately, those tricks are more lame than humorous, but I still love him for trying, even though he ruined one of my favorite Calvin Klein jeans with some black tar paint. Don't ask. The memory is still a painfully awkward one that I inherited the nickname "Tar Butt." Nice thing for your boyfriend to call you.

I know most people would cut their losses and throw Richard back to the sea with the other guppies, but I see something in him that others don't. He might not be the most mature man out there. His anger comes and goes like Mt. St Helens. His sense of humor is questionable at best. The one thing I know for certain is that Richard is loyal. He will never leave me, even if I beg him to. He's that kind of guy.

I guess, my grandmother is right after all. God had at least one plan for me: to find a running mate to drag around on life's campaign trial. Thankfully, God got that one