results not typical

I don’t have a life that people want to read about. I don’t sip Cosmopolitans. I drink gallons of Mr. Coffee coffee and the occasional Starbucks, especially if I have a gift card from some poor soul who had no idea what to get me for my this-close-to-Christmas birthday. I don’t and can’t wear 4 inch heels. Manolo Blanik’s or otherwise. I am a Payless girl. I have six pocketbooks and six pairs of shoes, and that’s counting my sneakers and the pair of Crocs that Rosie O’Donnell influenced me to purchase. I don’t need to make an appointment six weeks in advance to get my hair cut. My last haircut cost $22 and that was only because I had it washed first. $27 if you count the tip. I don’t frequent trendy clubs or restaurants and the only French items I order are fries and onion soup. I don’t belong to a gym, a yoga class or have a Pilates instructor. I don’t go to therapy, counseling or acupuncture. I yell when I’m angry, cry when I’m sad, smile when I’m happy and thrilled to death I know the difference. I haven’t had anything lifted, tucked or plumped. I’ve plumped more than enough on my own. I haven’t joined a spinning class, a wine tasting group or a book club. If I wanted to, I could sit on my dormant elliptical with a peach Bartlett and James and read the latest issue of People. I don’t have an addiction problem, paparazzi trouble or thank God, a baby bump. I don’t water ski, surf or own a jet ski. Water, if not chlorinated does not warrant my attention. And speaking of water, I do not drink water that has been flavored, purified, naturally tapped from underground springs, made to sparkle or vitamin infused. I drink tap water. Ice cold, let the water run for a few minutes, tap water. I like to think that the little bits of sediment that eventually make its way to my kitchen sink are entitled to be enjoyed. My clothes don’t come with price inflating labels. There are no catchy logos or monograms embroidered across my behind. I don’t have a signature style, follow a fashion trend nor am I fashion-forward. The labels in my clothes are just that……labels. Washing instructions, what third world country they were made in and what to do in case the highly flammable fabric ignites. When I covertly cut the size tag out I feel better knowing that I am not removing someone’s opportunity to refurbish their yacht. Yup, I have a life that no one wants to read about, not sexy and chic like the Sex and the City girls, mine is more Bored and the Boros.