So I'm on an airplane on the way to NYC paging through my GQ when this girl sitting next to me falls asleep with her mouth open and starts to drool.
She's this cute girl, really. She's all natural brunette (think Charlotte from Sex and the City meets a bit of Jennifer Gardner and a splash of Christina Applegate in the face) and bumpy in the right places(you know where) and she was reading good magazines: Dwell, Vogue, and Ready Made. I mean, really, she was totally my type.
You know, if I was straight.
See, I think about that. What type of girl would be my kind of girl if she was single and, I was, well, straight. Now we can all agree that's like asking the Pope to go Buddhist, but it's fun to pretend. It's so necessary when things aren't going where you thought they would in life. And sometimes I truly believe it would be easier... to be straight.
As I try not to stare at the ooze coming out of my possible parallel universe girlfriend, I start to picture what kind of house we'd have. Seeing that she's reading Dwell, I'd imagine one of those all glass houses. She would totally be an editor of a high-end New York magazine and I would be doing something just as cool to have to be able to pay the mortgage on that all glass house. It would be something like Urban meets vintage decorated in the interiors(even my "parallel universe Byron" is gay) and we would have things from our exotic trips to Bora Bora decorating the walls and bookshelves.
"Mom, (parallel girlfriend's name, here) and I are spending the weekend in Cairo. She's doing a shoot for her magazine and I'm going because I can!" I will say when my mom asks if I will coming home for Thanksgiving.
"Oh! That's fantastic! You'll have a wonderful time. You'll be missed. Say hello to (parallel girlfriend's name, here). You'll be missed! We just adore her!" Of course mom would just be waiting for the marriage proposal date.
While paging through my magazine I glance back over at the brunette who is now sleeping with her head tilted a little to the left while still drooling.
She looks like she'd be a summer wedding. Late summer. It would be outside. She'd wear this really tight fitting Oscar de la Renta white gown(still gay!) and white Manolo Blahniks(GAYER YET!) and I would wear a tux or something. All our family would be sitting around us in white chairs on the beach off the coast of South America. We, of course, flew everyone in because my parallel girlfriend has family money and are pulling out all the stops. My mom would tear up and hug me after the ceremony and say: "We are just so happy it finally happened!" And my dad would smack me on the back and say something like: "Son, you've got yourself a good one there." and my brother would shake my hand and her parents would hug me and her dad would say something like: "You better watch her. She's my baby girl." And I would pat him on the shoulder and nod.
Our first dance would be at the reception where everything is candle lit. She would smile at me while we were close. The big band playing in the background. Most likely Sinatra, 'cause that's what straight couples dance to when they are in love. Later, the DJ we would so obviously hire to close the night would invite the grandparents and guests to dance the night away while we prepare ourselves for our honeymoon to some private island off of Greece that is so small maps don't even label it.
We would be in Greece. Sun shining. Wearing our Marc Jacobs glasses and riding on Mopeds and the humid Mediterranean afternoons would be filled with...sex...um, sex... with... um, her...
The plan on the plane is jostled by a sharp bump waking the cute brunette from her nap and at the same time snapping me out of the daydream. I continue to page through GQ turning to a page that has this hot hunky guy (think Mark Feuerstein).
I start to imagine Mark and I living in a house... a modern house... one made out of glass...
See, pretending is only fun until you actually have to, you know, "do-it". Then it's back to reality... like marrying models/actors that are in sleek advertisements for Dior ads.