I have something of a confession to make. When I was a girl of 13 I used to have a poster of Michael Jackson hanging at the end of my bed. At night, I would fantasize about the two of us meeting – strictly by chance – in some public place, my intelligence and obvious beauty sweeping him off of his feet to such an extent that he would be unable to resist whisking me away, A La Presley/ Beaulieu style, and we would live happily ever after. Aside from the obvious flaws to my plan, it did not pan out and I am happily ensconced in British Columbia on an Island where I can do no harm.
Or so one may think. After years of living in happily wedded bliss, I find myself once again dreaming the dream of the unrequited. This time, my fantasies have found themselves with a little more meat – I mean, with the age of social media, one can almost reach out and touch their favorite celebrity, metaphorically speaking of course, however, the extent of the access we have makes one begin to imagine the possibilities of a relationship for real.
For instance I have developed the means to cyber-stalk come to the conclusion that I may be developing a little cyber crush on Wine Guru Mark Oldman. After a couple of meaningless Twitter interactions – the pinnacle of which was when he “Favourited” one of my Tweets- my fantasies, a la Michael Jackson, have begun once again. Picture it – we are at a wine gala together but unbeknownst to each other – me the up and coming, but slightly naïve wine sales rep and he of the knowing-smile, debonairly swishing eyebrow, devilishly-intelligent-eyed man about town- he who receives the digits of random grocery clerks (see…..seriously….I NEVER say “digits” in real life….what the Hell is this man doing to me??) (I saw the grocery clerk thing on his Twitter, and let’s face it, Twitter really is just a legalized stalking venue.).
I am of course, fabulously gowned in some Demi Moore type gown with one shoulder (in my fantasy I look svelte and fabulous; in reality I would be draped inconspicuously in Spanx like any other real woman who actually eats – incidentally I am eating right now….) and I am making my way through the room, laughing intelligently at people musing about the difference between Alsace and Al’s Ass, leaving charmed and ruined men in my wake. Our eyes (mine and Mark’s) meet and I am drawn unconsciously and completely against my will to that smile (that smile that looks like he has a piece of Toblerone in his mouth even though he really doesn’t since as we know, the super-human celebrities have no need for sustenance) and his eyes, those piercing arctic blue eyes that could make Bette Davis curse her own mediocre orbs, twinkling at me over a glass of pink bubbly. Yes that’s right…Pink….His suit – impeccable – but rumpled in that darling little boy way of his, in a way that makes one think perhaps it’s rumpled because of a dalliance with some random woman, or perhaps wrinkled from gallantry….catching some swooning young oenophile.
Not for me that kind of mooning – I am Woman – hear me Roar. I will not fall prey to those chiseled features. Oh no….I will sashay up to him, utter some phrase from our own star crossed Tweets, making his eyes light up with unbridled interest as he breathes just one word….”You…..”. And as he raises my hand to kiss it, intending to steal me away from this tiresome wine ball, his magnificent eyes will alight on my wedding ring, they will meet my own, and I will slowly remove my hand, holding our eye contact, and without saying a word, walk back to my Groom, knowing, and hoping, that perhaps somewhere a celebrity is having a small “What-if” fantasy about a nobody.