I’ve tried to get him out of my head. But I just can’t.
It’s been months now that I have gone to bed, and then allowed myself the luxury of letting my thoughts drift off towards him and his life. Sure, my husband thinks I am going to bed earlier than usual, but hey, winter’s here and it makes a girl tired.
The thing is … he’s gay. I’m spending hours upon hours loving someone who will never love me back. I know, I’m surely not the only girl who’s ever fallen for a gay man.
The gay man can be known to frequent the gym, keep his body looking mighty young and tanned, wax hairs that were nature’s idea of a cruel joke and dress in clothes that were bought within this decade. It’s all just too much for a girl sometimes.
But the man I love? Hmm … let’s see … he’s lazy, out of shape, wears second-hand clothes, and chain-smokes to ward off his OCD. And that’s just what he admits to. Goodness only knows what his real flaws are.
Here’s a photo of him.
Uh, yeah. He’s got a monkey on his shoulder. Only a love-crazed woman would swoon over a man with a damn monkey on his shoulder!
But, you see…. this is David Sedaris. THE David Sedaris.
The same David Sedaris that I wrote about here after reading his book When You Are Engulfed in Flames. And then I also made you read excerpts from his books here too. Since then, I’ve savoured the stories in four of his books, with no plans of stopping anytime soon. And in case you think it’s only my bloggy friends that I am forcing Sedaris on, I’ve also coerced “real-life” friends to buy his books — even my mother has not been spared. (Although, to her credit — or discredit I should say – she said she thought his work was ”just stupid.” Just stupid! Can you believe that?! Sheesh.)
So, there, that’s it. Now I’ve gotten it off my chest. I’m in love with a man named David Sedaris. Who is already happily partnered off with a man named Hugh.
Okay, so perhaps I’m not entirely in love with him. But I am sooo in love with the notion of him. His ability to turn a phrase, to pick a choice word … it just leaves me in awe. This must be how teen-aged girls feel about a boy-band singer. They’d swear they’re in love too, despite never having met the kid on stage with makeup covering his zits.
I picture David (we’re on a first-name basis, of course) all messy-haired with raggedy slippers on, sitting at an old, heavy wooden desk in his country home in France. As he looks out the window into the night, he pauses to ponder a word or two while drawing on his cigarette, and then continues to write.
