I wish I were the kind of woman, like the one on the street right now, who is walking her dog wearing a yellow slicker with matching hat and boots instead of setting out in my regular fraying jeans and an old jacket with an umbrella that turns inside out. Perhaps her boots are too much so I would go with green wellies.
I wish I were the kind of woman who had a dog.

I wish I were the kind of woman who hops in her car and drives across the country, alone and fearless, to help Sandy victims, visit a pueblo, learn to make sourdough bread, get out the vote for President Obama.
I wish I were the kind of woman who drove a car.

Or I'd like to be the kind of women who can walk steadily in high heels, who learned to draw a perfect line on her eyelid at sixteen, who knows that the dress with the animal print that the clerks at Lord and Taylors call the Lion King dress, will not be a good choice for my daughter's wedding.
I wish I didn't have shoes, blouses, pajamas and a coat with an animal print in my closet.

I wish I read 450 books a year like Sarah Weinman. I can tell myself that I get more out of the 100 books I do read, but since I could not give you the plot of ones I read six months ago, this is not persuasive.

I wish I were the kind of person who did not create excuses to eat.
Like it really doesn't count if you eat standing up so go ahead and grab a piece of angel food cake as you walk past the box. Or that bread is so thin, three pieces of French toast will be the same calories as two. 

I wish I didn't feel compelled to report on the night's sleep I just had. And I wish Phil didn't feel compelled to tell me about his dreams.
They are so much more exciting than mine.

I wish I was finishing the story I am stuck on instead of telling myself that stream of consciousness writing can open up those brain passages.

And I did just think of an ending.

Thanks for listening.