Today I was ironing pillowcases and thinking about the time years ago when Oprah casually mentioned on her show, "There is nothing better than freshly ironed pillowcases..." And at that moment I said to myself, "Are you kidding me? Oh wait, you're Oprah." Or Oprahdiculous, as I've renamed the woman.
Now stop for a minute. Before y'all utter "Why is Lula ironing pillowcases?" I will confess to leaving the sheets in the dryer for 2 days. They crumpled in the claustrophobia. My parents are coming soon and the guest bed needs clean sheets. These were rendered withered beyond repair and I didn't want my folks getting huge creases on their faces. I'm a good daughter.
Anyway, I'm standing there pressing pillowcases, thinking of Oprah and her starched and creased 25,000 thread count beauties, and dreaming of living so lavishly that I could have freshly laundered sheets. Every day. Every single day. Of my life.
Then I started imagining what it'd be like if every day were clean sheet day! I mean every day, not just Sunday. And if I had a housekeeper putting new linens on our beds each day, why couldn't she also shampoo my hair every morning? Complete with a 10 minute scalp massage, please. And while she's at it, freshly brewed coffee, my morning paper, and my slippers would be truly appreciated immediately following the lathering of my locks. I wouldn't have to lift a finger.
Can you imagine?
I cannot. I can dream. But I can't think of what it would be like to have a full-time maid or personal assistant. Or a towel warmer. Is that not dreamy? Tell me it's not. A big, fluffy, warm towel at your fingertips, seconds after exiting the shower? Have mercy.
So there I am, still ironing sheets for my folks, while the girls are watching Little Bill. At that moment I experienced a toe-curling revelation: I'm lusting over laundry. I used to fawn over such as this:
Oh River, how I loved you, how I longed to smoke with you. Sigh...
This, however, gives me much greater pleasure:
I was meant for this...to hop in, read, eat, and dream amidst clouds of luxurious Italian threads. Seriously, this is my version of Disney World. And if I'm dreaming at full potential, I might as well have a catheter--'cause why get out of the clouds for an act so inane it's been nicknamed and numbered 1 and 2?
Immediately following this revelation I knew in my head what my heart has been trying to tell me all along. I am middle aged. Just turn the television to Wheel of Fortune, hand me a bag of Nutter Butters, and ask for regular updates from the Weather Channel. Amen.