I wish I had a parasol that matched my stroller. I wish my pants were red and pressed. Nothing I own is pressed. I’m lucky if it’s folded.
I wish I showered more. Shaved more. I wish I had little cupboards and containers for the plastic and metal cars and books and puzzle pieces I stumble on or over. That somehow cover every floor. Every day.
I wish I enjoyed green tea. I wish I was really into breastfeeding. Psyched about it. La Leche League. I wish I didn’t need so much sleep.
I wish my kids liked vegetables. I wish I liked vegetables. I wish vegetables contributed to cellulite and quesadillas were recommended for weight loss.
I wish I could make margaritas during the day and move through yoga classes with grace. I wish I had a wild secret lover.
I wish I was more alive. Alive-er.
I wish I cared less about the Kardashians. I wish I was a big shot business woman. I wish I didn’t have this headache.
I wish I could read for long stretches of time. I wish I had granite countertops and an island in my kitchen. I wish I had trendy sneakers.
And just now, to my left, a guy replied “I will worship you!” when his companion said he was writing a review of a book I didn’t catch the name of and I wish that was all it took.