Okay, so I was all ready to post about seeing Iron Man (which is great, go see it!) and the mystery that is the allure of superheroes masquerading as playboy billionaires (see also: Bruce Wayne/Batman) but I ran out of steam about a paragraph in and the whole thing fell apart and the only thing I can really say is "Go see Iron Man because it is on the 'Awesome' end of the superhero movie spectrum and even though Robert Downey, Jr. is a hot mess (yes, I used that phrase, but only because it totally fits, as he is attractive and a total mess) most of the time. But when the movie opened on him in a Humvee while Back In Black by AC/DC (which I must confess is kind of a trigger song for me, which I blame on Supernatural, because once you associate a song with Dean Winchester, how can it not be sexy? And that is probably more than you ever wanted to know about me) kicked into high gear, the only thing I could think was 'Da-yum' (and yes when I see attractive men I tend to have a potty mouth. And, apparently, a Southern accent)." Oh, and if I were the endlessly efficient and completely co-dependent personal assistant to a superhero masquerading as a playboy billionaire, I would totally want Gwyneth Paltrow's wardrobe in Iron Man. Full of little black dresses and perfectly tailored suits as it was. But see, that just isn't the well thought out piece of pseudo-psychology I wanted it to be.
Part of the problem is that I have the attention span of an adolescent gnat. I have absolutely no concentration. This is partially due to the fact that I'm still getting up at 5:15 in the morning to work out, which hasn't so much made me lose weight as make me crave junk food (I devoured almost an entire box of Red Vines while watching Iron Man. And most of the ice in my Dr. Pepper.) all day long and then curl up for a nap under my desk at work. Additionally, I'm still waiting to hear about grad school and obsessing about not knowing takes up a lot of brain power. And Sunday is Mother's Day and it's totally going to suck. Which possibly leads me to why I would rather read whatever trashy magazine I can lay my hands on than focus on anything serious. If I truly think about my life, it kind of sucks right now. Not least of all because pretty much every person (but one, Hi E! Remember that old maid's commune we planned in high school? I think we cursed ourselves.) I know between the ages of 18 and 40 are seriously involved or married and at some stage of procreation.
The Avoidance and Ignoring part of my brain took over last week shortly after the secretary in the law firm that shares our office announced she was getting married. To explain exactly why that is so depressing, I have to describe this girl. And in so doing you will probably all think less of me. First of all, because she and another secretary that was hired at the same time had very similar names, she came to be called 'Pants.' The reason she is called 'Pants' is because her work wardrobe consists solely of stretch pants (some with stirrups, some without) with elastic waistbands. This girl is 29, not 67. And shaped like a 5 foot-tall apple. Also, she tucks her knit shirts into said elastic waistbands of said stretch pants. With which she wears white athletic socks and black penny loafers. If she allowed it, her hair would be naturally curly, but she combs it out and it is a big sheet of frizz. In which she wears a knit headband that is color-coordinated to her pants. She has glasses that take up half of her face and would not be out of place on a woman three times her age. She also has facial hair. A lot. All the girls in the office want to nominate her for What Not to Wear. Not in a mean way, but in a concern for the fact that in inhibits her ability to function in the professional world. Mostly because we cannot believe she even got hired, because presentation is half of that equation. And while the rational slice of my brain tells me that her fiance is closing in on 300 pounds and not exactly an overachiever, seeing as it took him 10 years to propose and completely not what I would want. But the non-rational slice is louder these days and has minor freakouts at work because someone I don't even know outside of reading her blog (but seems so fabulous I wish I did know her and I have now reached a new low) just announced that she too is procreating. All of which leads me to the conclusion that I will die alone and be eaten by Alsatians (TM Bridget Jones). Which is why I spent Monday night alternately inhaling Red Vines and chewing ice that tasted vaguely of Dr. Pepper whilst wishing I was the endlessly efficient and completely co-dependent personal assistant to a superhero masquerading as a billionaire playboy. And I have completely regressed to the age of 15.