How Cliché

Hi.

I’m a 32 year old white woman with shoulder-length, subtly-highlighted, hair.

I’m married to a doctor. (Well, a Ph.D.)

I have one (step) son. (It’s like motherhood light, sans stretch marks.)

On occasion, we all wear matching polo shirts embroidered with our last name (and yes, I ‘pop the collar.’)

I have a purebred Irish Setter. (She is neither stupid nor crazy…she is adorable, and that’s final.)

I live in the most expensive zip code in my state. (Granted, my house is the size of your closet.)

I’m writing a novel (based loosely on my life in my twenties.  WEEE!!!!)

We are members of a private club.

I work out with a personal trainer.

We are remodeling our kitchen this summer and debating which gourmet range to purchase.

And we just bought a BMW.

A BM-Freakin-W.

Do we want to be walking clichés?  Apparently, we do.  Reading the above summary of the current state of my life sure as hell makes me look soulless doesn’t it?

Fuck.

You see, it’s because of all of this STUFF, that I sometimes fall into a deep soul-rendering panic.  This is what happens when you have everything you want.

Want to hear another cliché?  I’m worried about loosing touch with gritty reality.

So I just signed up to run with Back on my Feet.  They are an organization that brings together runners from different social statuses i.e. homeless and non-homeless runners.

I’m hoping it will at least lend me a little depth, before it’s too late.