I used to listen to my mp3 player with some regularity because I dig plugging in while I’m on the treadmill and being transported to my inner world where I am a ROCK STAR’S girlfriend. But not like Ambre or Daisy or that stripper (no, not that stripper! That other stripper!! Yes, her!) from Rock of Crabs. I’m the girlfriend who has been with him since they played in the garage. The classy lifer who knows the man behind the brand. The girlfriend who would NEVER lift her left titty up to the camera when he asked “for somethin’ sexy.” His rock. His muse. Yeah, we’d have our rocky patches, times when groupies would stir up trouble, when that new bassist from that other band was a bit too attentive to me, times when he was on the road too much and life at home with the triplets and building my fashion business wasn’t as smooth as he’d promised, but our love was solid and like my size 1 body, never wavered.
Don’t judge me.
Anyway, imagine how I felt on Monday as I stepped on the treadmill for the first time in a realllly long time and pressed play when instead of Adam Ant welcoming me back into our little fantasy world with his “once is never e-nough. Never is, never was, uh-huh!” I got something that sounded suspiciously like me running the vaccuum and my kids fighting. DAMMIT! Even my fantasy life is freakin’ domestic!! Those sweet little shits are EVERYWHERE!!