The Reality of my Reality

It started with Trading Spaces. I used to wish I knew the name of even one of my neighbors enough to enlist them for the show so I could get my bedroom redone by Genevieve or Vern and so I could also say that Ty Pennington was in my bedroom...yummy. Soon I envisioned myself being surprised some Sunday night by the gang from While You Were Out with some contrived story as to why I was at the resort spa and learning that my husband may indeed think of me lovingly when I'm not around (oh, and also realizing that Andrew Dan-Jumbo was in my bedroom....fruit salad!).

Once I relinquished the idea of hunky men building me a bed fit for the goodess within me, I shifted gears toward shows like What Not To Wear that take your true self (and poor department store choices) to transform you, inside and out, into the latest Paris Hilton or MK/Ashley Olsen. Trendy, hip, someone others want to emulate. Cool.

As more and more networks followed the TLC lead, I found myself longing for more: Ty could again come to my house and solve all of the construction issues that have come to light since we bought this house and learned the original owner ran out of money by applying to be on Extreme Makeover: Home Edition (unfortunately, we're not "wonderful" or "needy" except that we don't have much money so the big bus won't be parked out in front of our house any time soon). Or maybe I could leave for 4 months and come home looking like a completely different person with hair extentions and messed up lips by being on The Swan. Not exactly practical for someone that is parenting alone from Monday to Friday.

My latest dream-state? If I thought I could leave my little one behind for upwards of 15 weeks, I'd be sending in an application video to The Biggest Loser or having a British woman, younger than me and without children of her own, stopping by to right my parenting ways ala SuperNanny. Better yet, an e-mail to Dr. Phil to have him help DH and I reconnect.

The reality of my reality is much simpler than that. I need to lose more than 50 pounds and have my boobs put back up where they used to sit all perky and pretty, my kid doesn't always respect me but he loves me a whole bunch, my husband and I teeter on the brink of emptiness more often than not and my house won't be gracing the cover of BH&G anytime soon. I may be dreaming but I have a great life.

Maybe my 15 minutes of fame is more realistically dropping the arm and reciting "Real Sex, take 2" somewhere on the streets of New York....