Drive now wants me to live a fancy life and I told them I’d write about it. I’ve never lived a fancy life. I’ve been everywhere under fancy, but never supa fancy. I’ve been on the opposite end of fancy and every color between so not fancy at all, to I have everything I could ever need, but not necessarily anything I want.
I still believe I’m destined for a fancy life, it just hasn’t come yet. And there is zero light at the end of the tunnel. Not even a speck. Especially those days I end up wiping exactly 5.8 butts before noon. On the same two little people.
I took The Muffin to preschool this morning and as I opened the door to our beige minivan, Chick Fil A cups tumbled out, a stuffed animal landed on my flip flopped foot and scared the hair off of me, and papers fluttered in the wind. How freaking embarrassing. I quickly shoved everything right back into the car where it was sure to fall out in the preschool parking lot, and buckled my little ratty headed daughter into her car seat.
If you’ve got a solution for consistently ratty hair, please let me know.
As I was driving through the apartment complex behind our neighborhood to get to her preschool, I imagined life with a driver. You know, a bonafide driver. Someone with a daily tuxedo on, aviator lenz, and a pearly white smile. Perhaps even an accent. Someone who would take me wherever I wanted to go and was at my beck and call whenever I so desired.
I would walk out of my Brownstone each morning with my pencil thin legs hidden neatly beneath a pencil skirt, capped with pretty nude Louboutins, and perfect curls resting on my shoulders. Louis Vuitton on my shoulder. OH the kids? They’re with the nanny.
I’d greet my driver with a cheerful “good morning! let’s go get coffee!” Then I’d treat him to a caffeinated beverage while he drove me all around NYC to my favorite stores in an effort to completely restock my winter wardrobe with the most fashionable and trendy off-runway clothes available. I imagined bouncing out of stores carrying garment bags and hat boxes galore, headed to my shiny black whatevertheheckmydriverdrives thing. Anything but a limo, but definitely black.
And because I lived a fancy life, I’d travel the world whenever I pleased, leaving my driver to have paid vacation back in the states. Need a driver in Japan? No problem. Need a driver in France? Whatevs. Need a driver in Australia? Check out Drive Now car hire for Brisbane city, or Sydney, or wherever I ended up. Are there drivers for my holiday in the outback of Australia? I’d even have a driver in Antarctica. I don’t know what the flip he’d drive, but he’d be there, ever waiting for my annual trysts with the penguins.
I’m sick of driving myself to Target every day. I don’t want to drive to the grocery store anymore. I don’t even want to drive to Starbucks. My right leg is significantly larger than the left because I drive so often and the right muscle is like woah. It’s like Popeye. Only my leg. And it’s weird. I’m like a 14 in one leg and a 22 in the other.
As I drifted back to earth from my little fancy life fantasy, I realized that I was literally sitting in the middle of the busy road that I was supposed to be crossing.
Distracted driving at its finest.
See? Just proof I need a driver. Or life in a big city so that I don’t have to drive anymore. I’m ready for a move to NYC. Or Chicago. Or Seattle. Who’s with me?