Hi, honey! (No need to get up, we're good here.)
I'm sorry that I have been keeping such a big secret, especially from my real-life (read: fake) husband David. For my "real husband" is none other than the foxy, the humble, the intelligent, the British-accented, the lean, the tall, the curly haired, the dreamy, the causal, the dimpled, the understatedly elegant, the masculine: Colin Firth, also known to me, personally, as sugar lips.
To clarify: Sugar lips is my "real husband" because if he were only my "fake husband," then that would mean my current conscious state is my "real world" and that just simply cannot be so because: 1. I am sitting at the NRA 2. There are fat rolls on my stomach 3. I am sitting at the NRA and finally, 4. Celery is my lunch today. Medical clarification: Firth, Firthy, the Firthinator is my "real husband" because I am in denial about the few depressing aspects of my life.
When I need to burn some cals—even though I really want to be stuffing my face with creamy pasta, or steak and seasonal cocktails—I've been forcing myself on walks, lately. So I trudge this big ole' body on up sidewalk, and I slip into my "real world" where sugar lips and I live for half of the year in a villa in the Italian countryside and spend the other half jumping back and forth between the different Greek islands. In case you were wondering, he looks the exact, perfect same way he always does and I look something like Penelope Cruz with normal-size hands and feet, standing on my yacht, holding my toy poodle, Marlee. (I could use my terrible photo-editing skills to show you just what that would look like here, but I'm too scared to take that giant step (down in my spiral).
On my walks, I talk and laugh with my "real husband" who thinks I am witty and adorable and sweet, and I let the wind blow my hair in a "dream world" free-spirited, beautiful way, that, in the "real world" makes me look like a crazy person who is in desperate need of a hair-tie. Talking to myself? Check. Laughing to myself? Check. Hair blowing in all different directions around my face so I can hardly see, as I stumble and huff my way through a less-than-half-mile walk? Check. Are you starting to pick up on my real world/fake would problem (read: delusions)? If you saw me walking like this, talking to myself like this, with a crazed look in my eye, would you call your local police? It's probably likely. But, I'll have you know that Colin and I don't care about that.
Nope. This kind of love is worth it, and anyone who doesn't understand us has never REALLY been in love in REAL life before. So you will just have to live with that, or we will. Either way we will continue to live together.
Before I go, I thought I would share one more photo from my private files. Here it is:
Jump in, the water's fine (and so am I).
I don't know what it is, but lately I am starting to enjoy "exercising" more and more. What a mystery.