Lately, I’ve been dating George Clooney.
Apparently, I’m not the only one.
Lisa Scottoline, an author I admire (and who feels like a kindred spirit), seems to think that she is also dating George. If she’s right then perhaps I will knuckle under and agree to some sort of joint-custody arrangement if–and only if–she’s dating 2013 George.
Because, fair warning, Lisa: kindred spirit or not, I’m having a full-on dalliance with George of years past.
1995 George is taken.
When I get home from work, I sneak in a little time with George before dinner. George, of the dark hair and yummy “twinkles” at the corners of his eyes. George, who is pining for me….or rather, Nurse Carol Hathaway.
Let’s not focus on her.
I found the first two seasons of the TV series, ER, at a garage sale. Brand new and a bargain little something to distract me while I exercise.
I’ve never really had a thing for exercising. But, I’ve always had kind of a thing for vintage dreamboats.
It started in my teen years when I had a James Dean phase. Boulevard of Broken Dreams, Rebel Without a Cause, great car (Porsche 550 Spyder), short life. It was like that song, Forever Young, by Alphaville.
You know: the sorts of things that make a teenage girl swoon. It was the 80s so, naturally, I had a crush on someone from the 50s.
But, I have matured and moved beyond vintage, Rebel Without a Hairbrush and Bad Boys of Broken Dreams. Now, it’s about the middle-aged twinkles and the beginnings of salt-and-pepper hair.
In other words, George, circa 1995.
“I’m going to visit George,” I confess to Practical Man breezily, as I head downstairs wearing obscenely coloured, breathable, spandex with reflective stripes in case someone tries to run me over while I’m on my treadmill or elliptical machines. A hideous, for-cardio-in-the-privacy-of-one’s-own-basement outfit that, thank goodness, George will never, ever see.
“Okay”, says Practical Man, “See you in an hour.”
Practical Man is not threatened by George. And he loves me despite the unfortunate exercise get-up.
The obnoxious outfit makes me feel sporty and athletic. It is all a ruse to distract me into the unfortunate exercising part. My shoes have “go faster” stripes on them.
I think they might be defective.
When I was young, my parents put me in soccer in a vain attempt to get me to be more sporty and athletic. I was timid (in life and soccer) and ran away from the evil soccer ball constantly. Anyone who tells you that heading the ball “doesn’t hurt a bit” is a big, fat liar.
Or possibly just sporty and athletic in a way that I will never be.
But, I loved my outfit.
It was blue and white with tall socks and despite my terrible soccer career, it allowed me, the shy bookworm, to masquerade every Wednesday night (and during photo ops in the back yard, under the crab-apple tree) as a jock.
That’s what’s really important.
Anyway, I feel like super-duper-fit girl with my day-glow, Olympic-wannabe outfit on. And, sure enough, ten minutes later, there I am, huffing and puffing.
With George, no less.
Unfortunately, not in the good way. Unless you count doubling your fainting-prone, half-dead heart rate as good.
Which, I don’t.
But it matters not, because 1995 George thinks I am powerful and glorious. I can just tell by the way he smiles at me sort of sidelong from the TV screen. He has faith that I will reach my slightly-less-zombie target heart rate and inspires me to hold in my (non-existent) stomach muscles when I just can’t stand it another second.
Sweating with George. It’s such a good part of my day.
Until, I rise from the depths of the basement, perspiring and red-faced from my efforts, to find Practical Man. As usual, he’s shopped for groceries, done the laundry, written me a sweet note on a Post-it, welded, constructed or repaired something and prepared dinner. He compliments my workout efforts without even noticing the obnoxious fitness ensemble and he’s got the requisite twinkly bits by his eyes.
Hands off, Lisa Scottoline. You can have George.
This vintage dreamboat is all mine.