Wednesday, October 29, 2014

Eddie and Me

I think all of us like to play the "what if" game with ourselves from time to time: What if I'd taken a job in another city? Maybe I should have studied abroad my junior year in college. Should we have bought our house when the stock market was a little less shitty? 

Well, I'm no different. I like to play the "what if" game too. Especially when procrastinating and clicking back and forth between People.Com and The Onion. However, I'd hazard a guess that my "what-ifs" tend to be a little less realistic than most. I like to dream big and ask myself the same "what if" question every few months: what if I'd realized my true destiny and married Eddie Vedder like I was supposed to? 

Oh, I've never met Eddie Vedder or so much as seen him from the nosebleed seats of a 56,000 person football stadium. But I'm convinced that if I had, everything in my life would be completely different (read: perfect). Come to think of it, I actually feel worse for Eddie than I do for myself. Granted, he's a multi-zillionaire rock star and social activist who's got two young daughters with a gorgeous super model (I checked and she's only one month younger than me. See?!), but I think we really missed our calling as a power couple. I should know: I've studied his Wikipedia page closely, which quotes his conflicted relationship with fame: "Vedder's issue with fame came from what he stated as 'what happens when a lot of these people start thinking you can change their lives or save their lives or whatever and create these impossible fuckin' expectations that in the end just start tearing you apart.'" 

Oh Eddie. I would never do that to you. I would never create any impossible fuckin' expectations of you! (Well, at least not beyond the expectation that your hair stayed totally hot and awesome forever, especially right when you got out of the water after a long day of surfing. That's not too much to ask . . . is it?) And I'd never tear you apart. At least not psychologically. I'd be your special muse and you would write a Grammy (tm) award-winning album all about how I helped you feel better about being rich and famous. It would be like a latter-day "Layla" or "Blonde on Blonde." I'd go to all your pro-choice and animal rights rallies and boycotts of Ticket Master. You'd do a long interview with Rolling Stone taking on the haters who claimed you were punching beneath your weight by devoting your life to a less-than-supermodel with a muffin top and crow's feet at 37. All your rock star friends and Pearl Jam wives would insist on my company to entertain them backstage with my rapier wit and joie de vivre. You'd croon our bazillion adorable perfect babies to sleep every night with that tiny ukelele . . . 

Wait .... what? Oh SHIT! I have a conference call now.

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