I don’t see why reality “as seen on TV” isn’t available for the rest of us? Do I have to be on The Bachelorette to get in on the reality that TV is representing?
Is commercial life commercially available to the rest of us? Because I do want my newly-swept floors to pass the white sock test. I do!
Clearly, our socks must be the whitest they can be because mama’s got the magic of a certain brand of bleach. I also aim to be a choosy mom who chooses the perfect peanut butter and not some slacker who would choose a store brand or let a “buy one get one free” offer waylay her.
Nor would I wish to risk purchasing the store-brand facial tissue. With no respect for the corporate powers that be (or a subsidiary of same), who have cornered the market on the exact type of rocket science required to make a product you wipe your nose on – please accept no iffy substitutes.
I want to ask my doctor about the “little purple pill” and all its colorful brethren purporting to offer perfection in a bottle. At least to those of us with lenient HMOs and a good prescription plan.
Regular life. I want a cardigan tied around my shoulders while wheeling a bicycle with a basket full of daisies down a country lane in the company of a handsome gent who’s eyeing me fondly, while we guffaw in openmouthed glee with our heads tossed back, as if we are trying to swallow our body weight in bugs. We are that happy.
We would, of course, be completely “regular” and as a result the world would be our oyster.
I want to be able to make friends and influence people simply by choosing the right orange juice and having a really “fresh” toilet bowl.
I want Jell-O pudding to bring about complete family harmony. And soda pop to suddenly give me rhythm — and the ability to tap dance.
Further, why bother with watering their plants while they vacation and giving back their misdirected mail, when having a weed-free lawn is clearly the key to a neighbor’s heart?
Capsulated athletes. I want to pop a pill for seasonal allergies and be instantly transported to a ragweed-infested meadow rife with waving seas of grass as far as the eye can see; or hiking up a mountainside; or perhaps skiing.
Never mind that I cannot actually do any of these things; with modern medicine all things are possible.
I’ve seen the ads and they never show a chubby, athletically challenged, rheumy-eyed guy with a hacking cough and post-nasal drip just glad to relieve his symptoms so he can enjoy pro wrestling in peace. So you know those must be some good drugs.
And I definitely want to be Ms. “After” in those weight loss aid ads where Ms. “After” is holding out the waistband of her colossal sized “before” pants.
Which is amazing since the fine print will generally read “average weight loss one to four pounds.”
The real miracle being that Ms. “After” can make one to four pounds translate into 12 dress sizes. You go girl!
Really real. If reality were really like TV we could all have a fresher breath, healthier coat, pine fresh, stain fighting, extra fluffy softness, FDC yellow No. 7, artificially flavored, 10 percent real juice, no payments for 90 days kind of life.
Of course, the problem with this lifestyle is that some users report significant side effects and, it goes without saying, your mileage may vary.
(Kymberly Foster Seabolt believes her breath is OK, but her no-wax floors are at imminent risk. She welcomes comments c/o P.O. Box 38, Salem, OH 44460 or email@example.com.)
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