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Becoming Diane…

I’m wearing a lot of turtlenecks. Partly because it’s been unusually cold on the surface of the sun and since I’m such a delicate flower, I’m freezing. There’s another reason. I’m entering my Diane Keaton in Something’s Gotta Give phase. All I need now is an age-appropriate lover to take a scissors to my sweater in the heat of passion.

Seen the movie a hundred times, but a rewatch triggered something.

I got the haircut. All layer-y with bangs. Bangs are supposed to frame the face and make us gals of a certain age appear younger. I’m too busy angrily sweeping bangs off my face to know whether that’s true.

Wide leg trousers complete the look, in dark hues to minimize the size of my ass. At a certain point it’s all illusion, non? My ass moves of its own accord and, most often, at inopportune times. There is no magic number of lunges to fight age.

Did you see the movie? It’s not just the look–it’s the life I’m after. The writing desk overlooking the ocean is the screensaver on my computer. It’s supposed to motivate and remind me daily to focus and write more. I look at it longingly each time I pass it by to get to Pinterest.

Of course the story and the set are the work of Nancy Meyers, the wunderkind that strikes at the heart of all the middle age gals. The perfect kitchen for late night pancakes and flirting, walls of french doors, easy, beachy furnishings–it’s the stuff of fantasy.

I need the beach house. If I had the beach house, I’d write a bestseller. Make mine in Coronado instead of The Hamptons. No offense, East Coasters, but I’m not a fan of weather or your accent.

As for a young lover to teach me to love again? Perhaps. But only if it’s actually Keanu. Although Keanu and I are age appropriate, so perhaps I could just hand him a pair of scissors.

Or is it Paris? Is a trip across the pond what reignites later life? Shall I sit in a cafe with champagne and a cigarette. Just kidding. Gross. But a baguette might do the trick. Yes, a Paris cafe, champagne and a baguette will turn me into a bestselling author, the life of which I dream. That’s the ticket.

Or perhaps it’s something much simpler. Could it be that dreams manifest not from imagination but from hard work, dedication, saying no to cocktails with the YaYas and putting a generous amount of ass time in the chair, no distractions?

Nah. If the Duchess Dolls did that, what on earth would we have to write about? Instead, put an end to COVID, let us back in the country dive bar and let us dance away the hours surrounded by cowboys. Do you think Keanu likes country? Somebody do some research on that.

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