I know what im supposed to write, what my decreasing handful of faithful readers expect fo find from my new not exoctic aventure as I crawl into the leather that is london, in it’s fake fashion statements, false lashes and overdone spray tan. London is a lie at its core. The women as not as beautiful, the bodies are not as thin. The hairs aren’t washed in days. Boys smell of too much cologne to hide the fact gas bills are off the charts so we are all saving up on hot water shower. Such Glamour! If only they knew. No, wait up, I’m not hiding. Enjoy it, haters! London is not glamoursous!
Although…. I did meet the director the the latest Star Wars rendition before having a lobster dinner. I have also been accompanied to the theatre more times in the last 4 months then I have been the 11 years before that. Now, what is the difference between these two situations?
Him. Yes, Him.
The one thing that lightens my London existence is him. Don’t read to much into it: he’s not perfect, far from it. He’s hit issues as I got issues – sometimes they match, sometimes they don’t. Sometimes I try to dial down the crazy because he has done very little to warn that side of me. That’s when the fantasy becomes an even better reality than that which I had dreamed of before getting on that ratty flight to this cozy little place I now call home.
I’m a bit of a mess, yes. Enjoy, all you haters out there (yes, I am still aware of you) because London as it is isn’t all the beautiful landmarks and winds that perfect align my carefully made up hair.
No, London is messy. The wind makes my hair flow around my face into knots that take me hours of cheap raspberry shampoo to smooth. My best fashion moment was finding a bargain at a vintage store and waiting happy hour cocktails to drinks has been the highlight of my current carrear path.
But the question I keep asking myself is always the same: am I happy? Is this what I want? And just as I’m ready to take the next flight back, he walks in the room, he looks at me in those perfect green eyes, the little brown flecke glowing from his right iris and all I know, inside my body, is that I want to be his. In the least feminist move ever, I want to take his last name and be his, whatever comes next just a challenge to surpass later. And as long as he wakes up in the morning, stroking my face with one lazy finger and telling me I’m beautiful in the morning, I’m his. As long as he’ll have me. I mean… it’s only forever, right? It not long at all…