Careful What You Wish For…

9:24 PM

For some of us, wishes are so big they twinkle like unreachable stars just out of reach. They flail about in our heads with little chance of fruition. Until they don’t. When they begin to materialize, it is not only magical, it’s exhausting. Who knew?

Who knew launching a brand was all consuming? Who knew there was so much to consider, think on and ponder? I advise clients what to do, what to say, what to wear and when to do what. Funny when the tables are turned and Advisor Girl directs my movements I get a little cranky. I blame the yoga.

The Fixer tells me we need to film for a You Tube Channel. Evidently, television no longer has the lock down on revenue and we can all do a bit better bypassing the old; reaping our own ad rewards instead of allowing stations to decide our value. Business lesson for the day dolls.

She tells me to find places to film; things that reflect “The Duchess.” Yes, she’s serious about this Duchess shit. That Duchess, like the one in Aristocats, who can handle anything with “class.” Amour should re-brand everything under The Duchess umbrella. Eyebrow raise.

The Duchess brand combines fashion, snark, love–the hallmarks of Amour De Ma Vie–with class, manners and cotillion on steroids. She says it’s what I wanted. At our first meeting she asked, “What are you naturally good at?”

Who knew writing, table setting, Christmas tree trimming and placement of water glasses is a combination that spells j-o-b. Turns out, it is. And if anyone can turn your natural talent into a career, it is The Fixer. Careful what you wish for dolls. You just may find it in a wild haired witch with a foreign accent forcing you to scout film locations.

I am concerned with two things–the size of my ass and my age. Who wants to watch an old lady with daily ass spread on film? She says we will film my upper half. She adds that “class” comes with age. Basically, we need an old lady with a wide ass to tell us where to shop and how to pick the crystal. Pfft.

Still, it’s probably a good idea to whittle the backside to smaller than wide angle, non? To avoid salads at all costs, I decide on exercise. My sweet friend, Finance Girl, invites me to yoga. In the halcyon days funded by The Norwegian, yoga, tennis and flower arranging made up a good portion of my sunrise to sunset.

I scoff at how many years it has been. Turns out, I’m less bendy. Evidently, I need a reminder of just how twisty I’m not. Sweat puddling between breasts, dribbling down my backside and providing enough slide on my mat to prevent a solid warrior stance, demonstrate just how far out of shape this girl has ventured. And my ass laughs.

Despite copious amounts of Advil, I remain acutely aware of each inflamed piece of connective tissue in my body. Praise Sweet Baby Jesus, the only muscles I work today while filming are those in my jaw.

We visit Baby Lux, a too-die-for boutique in my beloved Scottsdale and drool over offerings unavailable when my chickens were tots lest they be festooned with layers of tulle, ribbons galore and Michael Kors baby shoes. Not a typo. Michael Kors baby shoes. Squee.

I see one more client before I come home, remove my bra through the arm hole of my dress and fall into a chair. I am so very tired and sore I haven’t even thought of wine. Whaaa? Again, I blame the yoga. Damn exercise.