Sitcom Incorporated

I get goose bumps when I get to think of how much my life starts to resemble an American chick sitcom. I few days ago I practically fell in love with a guy who was sitting next to me on the plane. I was just comfortably sinking into my pink fantasies of us telling the story of how we met to our grandchildren, when out of the blue he blurted: ”Blah-blah… my wife and kids…”. I wished I had a shovel – to either hit him or dig a deep hole to the other side of the Earth. My reply?

So, you’re saying your kids aren’t here. Are you looking for new ones?

Unfortunately, I am a random person with basic manners, so I actually just nodded and smiled.


The day after, I went out for a walk. Perfect late-summer’s afternoon – beautiful bright colours, warm air, the sweet, swampy smell of the river Thames, lazily running at my side in its muddy bed – London at its best. On top of that – handsome men all over the place (most probably not, but that is kind of like the running-late-period-syndrome, when all you see is pregnant women). I was joyfully jumping from stone to stone (why would I do that?!) and doing my best to acknowledge, if not enjoy, the present moment. All in all – the closest one can get to perfection on a Sunday afternoon in mid-August London.

All of a sudden, my right foot, cosily embraced by a white running shoe as the local sport’s fashion demands, slipped on a wet stone. I fell in the most embarrassing manner – throwing my new ultra expensive phone in the air and landing like a boneless moron in the middle of a puddle. By doing so, of course, I managed to cause a great amusement to my audience, which, as I already mentioned, consisted mostly of fine male specimen. And to no surprise, no one paid attention to my rapidly swallowing knees and bleeding ego. Or, at least, no one came to propose me a marriage (as you would expect from a sitcom heroine to be hoping for).

So, I dragged my bruised ass back home for the final scene of that episode, in which a good friend of mine starts blinking hysterically on Skype. She, on the other hand, just got a marriage proposal. Oh joy! At least on-line you don’t have to put on a fake smile while congratulating someone for the joyful event, while cleaning your bleeding limbs . “That is fantastic news, my darling, I am so happy for you” –changing the bloody cotton pad –“How exactly did he propose?” – where is the fucking bandage… And all was running smoothly until I found myself typing “Sure, I would love to be your bridesmaid.

Bridesmaid?! Can this get any more Sex and the city? Or Bridget Jones? Girls?

I am more of a bride’s mate type of gal – drinking beer and  talking non-sense as oppose to – being identical to three others and pretending to like weddings. And  – maid? Seriously, mate, that ship has sailed long time ago.

Any resemblance to actual persons is purely coincidental. 

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