[Just to let you know, this post is going to be heavily illustrated with end-of-the-world-cat-imagery. You’re welcome.]

A long time ago, I tried watching the movie, Apocalypto. It was the worst. I’ve since seen worse films thanks to my 2012 resolution (Les Vacances de M. Hulot comes to mind) but that one was bad. They were eating testicles. Like, they ripped them off and ate them. What? Is that a fetish? I’m not into that. I didn’t finish the movie, I barely got ten minutes in, so I don’t have a clue what it was about, but the title makes me think something about an apocalypse. I could be wrong. Not important but a good segue into a blog about the apocalypse.

I’ve lived through three now, which is annoying, since the fact that I lived through them means that they never happened. The first was 2000. Nothing happened. I was in Phoenix that night at a concert just waiting for anything to happen. Nope. The next was in 2011. I was in Paris for that one. That was supposed to be a rapture, actually, not an apocalypse. But, what’s the difference?

Jessica and I even wrote a song about it, but I can’t find a copy of it to save my life. It was a pop ballad about dancing and the end of the world. Good stuff. Everybody writes music like that these days. No depth of content now, it’s all about bitches twerking on a pole. I enjoy that music, but is it so hard to write a good pop ballad? It wouldn’t be on the radio if it were written anyway–I’m glad I don’t often listen to the radio. If I wanted to hear the same 5 songs all day long, I would, but bitch please! (Actually, I listen to a lot of One Direction…so maybe I’m being hypocritical.) Anyway, the rapture never came about. Disappointing. And the last was December 21, 2012.

Nobody seemed sure when it was supposed to happen. Midnight GMT? Would that matter? What time zone did the Mayans use? Nobody seemed bothered that the Mayans told us that nothing would happen and there was zero historical evidence for this event. That didn’t stop the idiots from insulting the Mayans afterwards.

I’m so glad that’s over. I wonder when the next one is scheduled to arrive?

Thinking about that made me start thinking about what the end of the world would be like. I wouldn’t really be awfully bothered, I realized. I’ve enjoyed my life and why worry about dying in a global catastrophe that I can do nothing to avoid? But, I kept thinking and I realized that I would have a few regrets (but only if my soul survives the tsunami/tornado/hurricane/earthquake/meteor combo). I’ve described twelve and I’ll post this in two installments as to not overwhelm you with my regrets and dreams.

1. Not living out Katy Perry’s “Last Friday Night.”

I think I’m one of the most boring people in the world. I enjoy myself an awful lot, but I don’t do the things that other people do. I don’t go to clubs. I don’t really like talking to people. I can’t dance. I’ve never done drugs. I’ve had few occasions to fear catching syphilis. My idea of excitement involves painting walls and planning trips. Downloading another installment of the Amelia Peabody series is quite a thrill, I must add. If the world were ending, though, I’d regret never experiencing an outing like Katy did. If I ever move to California, I’m sure it’ll happen, but not much happens in Iowa. Strangers have never been in my bed (do you cook them breakfast?) I’ve never had a hangover (not from lack of trying, I seem to be immune). Glitter has never been all over my house (though that would piss me off. You can’t just vacuum that shit.) I’ve never owned a pink flamingo or a pool to put them in. Rebecca Black has never been my neighbor. Inappropriate pictures of myself have never been online (though, I crave attention and this would delight and flatter me.) My grill is for mushrooms and pizza, not for Barbies. I’ve never maxed out my credit card, instead, I use it for wise credit building purchases. I’ve never even listened to a Kenny G. album. Never have I ever danced on a tabletop. I have never gone skinny dipping. I wish I had a chandelier to find on the floor. Hanson has never performed in my yard. The most exciting thing I do is not wear underwear once in a while. I think I’m reasonably attractive and the last time I had too much to drink I had trouble keeping my pants on…so, I think accomplishing this end of the world goal is possible.

2. Not living on the beach.

I’m not meant to live in a landlocked state hours and hours from the salty sea. I’m meant to wake up in the morning to the sound of the waves crashing on the sand. To go for a long walk on the beach. To feed seagulls. To sit under a palm tree. To get an even tan as I watch the boats go sailing by. When I go to the beach, I feel different, I’m happy. It’s not an obvious happy, it’s a deep contentment. I don’t understand it. It’s not that I’m on vacation or that it’s out of the ordinary, both of which are true, it feels like I’m home. I need to find a place to live that has easy access to water. It doesn’t have to be a beach front cottage, which I’d adore, but within biking distance of the beach. After work, you know where I’ll be.

3. Not going to school for Egyptology.

I never thought I would have regrets like this one, but the older I get, the more disappointed I am with myself for not going to school. In high school, I had contempt for the idea of higher education and that really hasn’t diminished. I think it’s a corrupt system that robs corruptible young people of their money, ideas, and creativity, but I understand why so many people go. It’s something new to do that propels you into your life. I never really got that until now. My life isn’t really going anywhere. It’s comfortable and dull. If I had gone to school, I would have met new people and had a good many experiences that might have made me a very different person. I went to culinary school at Le Cordon Bleu, but that was only for three months and I was a hermit then. I’m not like that anymore. I’ve always wondered what I would go to school for, but I’ve never been able to decide. Nothing sounds like fun. For the longest time, I thought I’d be a French teacher, which would not be awful, but it’s not me. Can you imagine me spending years in a poorly lit school (as I am now) grading papers and dealing with unwilling students and unchic desks? I can’t. I have never had a longing to be anything other than myself. There was a quote from Gone With the Wind that really stuck with me: “Where do you want to get? I’ve often wondered. You see, I never wanted to get anywhere at all. I’ve only wanted to be myself.” I get that. I don’t have higher aspirations. I’ve just always wanted to lead an interesting life. When I start writing my memoirs, which I will, I don’t want to struggle to come up with material–I want it to be overwhelming. So, again I think to myself what I’d go for and I realize that the only topic that could possibly interest me longterm is Egyptology. I’ve been in love with Egypt since I was a child and I still am today. When I do get my tattoo sometime this year, it’s going to be in hieroglyphs. I don’t know what I’d do with an Egyptology degree, but it’s the only thing that could satisfy me mentally, I think. I wouldn’t mind going for interior design, but I really don’t think that’s something you can learn. You either have it or you don’t. So, someday, maybe soon, maybe in a long time, who knows, I’ll enroll at UCLA or The Oriental Institute and you’ll see me as an expert with a self published book on those addicting shows on the History Channel. I’d die if I were on Ancient Aliens. I’d just die!

4. Not having abs and showing them off.

Ever since I decided I wasn’t going to be fat anymore–three years ago, I think–I’ve been waiting for my abs to arrive. They’re here. I can feel them, but sadly I can’t see them. I joke and say that they’re shy, but it’s really very annoying to me. I want to rip off my shirt and show them off. Not remove my shirt, no, rip it off.

Again, my inner longing to be a stripper emerges. I do a lot of exercise and I’m quite fit and annoyingly healthy, but all I have is a flat stomach. I know that’s fine and good and most people would be satisfied with that–but that’s because everybody is so fat. Everywhere you look there’s another fat person. I feel bad for them–not because they’re fat, but because that’s so unhealthy…and because skinny people tend to be more attractive. Just saying. My goal this year is to finally see them. I’ve started a new fitness program called Gorilla Workout and I’m hopeful that it will help me. It’s a clever little program that has a new workout for you to do each day. They’re short, pretty easy to do, but very intense. I’ve already noticed that my body feels different. You can’t really see anything different, but I feel more dense. I could be imagining this. The other day when I woke up, I walked over to find some clothes to put on before leaving my bedroom and I caught a look at myself in the mirror. I swear to Buddha there was an ab. Singular, yes, but there it was. It wasn’t a shadow because I turned all the lights on. It wasn’t a crease or a wrinkle, it was a curve. It was the most shocking thing that’s ever happened in all of my life. I stood there, wide-eyed and stared at it. Can’t find it now, but it was there. So, I’m assuming this will be the year? I’d really like to look sexy as f**k if the world’s ending.

5. Never meeting Karl Lagerfeld.

This is not from lack of trying. I have tried and I have tried to find Karl. I know where he lives, I know where he goes, I know what he does at all times. I was even forward enough to ask if he was in his offices when I was at Chanel on the rue de Cambon last year. The friendly saleswoman was kind enough to tell me he was in Germany for the opening of La Petite Veste Noire in Berlin. Thwarted again! I’ve looked in his bookshop:

I’ve looked in Colette:

I’ve looked in the jewelry shop he likes.

I’ve looked in every Chanel shop:

I’ve wandered up and down the rue de Lille. Never have I seen him, though. As I was walking up the rue Royale one day, I looked in the window at Maxim’s and saw a flash of white hair and about collapsed. I thought it was him. I thought it was finally him and that all of my dreams were coming true, but the person turned and it was just an old woman. I wept. I know that someday our paths will cross, but I wish it had already happened. Baptiste Giabiconi stole everything from me! What a lucky bitch he is. I don’t know what I’d do if I met Karl. I’d probably pass out and hit my head and die. What a wonderful way to go, though. I’d need a photograph with him, of course, he’d look amazing and I’d be so nervous that I’d look dreadful. Do you smile? Do you risk the serious look with Karl? What to do? You’d be alarmed if you knew how long I’ve thought about this. I decided that if I’m wearing glasses, I’ll smile. If I’m wearing contacts, I’ll go serious. If I’m wearing sunglasses, I’ll mimic his pose. I’d want him to autograph my right bicep and then immediately have it tattooed. I decided on that ages ago. This might seem silly to you, and perhaps it is, but Karl is one of my biggest role models and inspirations. His life is an elegant fantasy and I want to experience it, if only for a brief chance encounter.

6. Never learning to dance.

I’ve never learned to dance. I’ve never really expressed an interest in it, though. I’ve never really wanted to dance. Lately, though, I have. I want to learn all the dances the young folks are doing. I want to learn how to do hip hop and tap and the samba. I want to be able to move my body without looking like an awful fool. It’s probably something about the way you present yourself. I hardly ever feel insecure or uncomfortable with myself, but dancing does it. What if I meet somebody who wants to waltz? What will I do? Or worse, if I do live out Katy Perry’s Friday night, what kind of a dance will I do on the top of a table or with a handsome stranger? The only dancing I can do is demonstrated in this clip…and it’s a parody:

I did do the Gangnam style dance with the kids on Friday. I wouldn’t call that dancing, though, it was more rhythmic jumping.

I’d like to hear a tune and naturally move my body in a rhythmic fashion. I should take lessons. When I finally get famous, I hope I’m famous enough to be considered for “Dancing With the Stars.” I’ve never gotten into the show, but everybody I know is obsessed with it. I’m more obsessed with how much more famous the “famous” people get and how much weight they lose and how they get to be stripper whores on television while people applaud them. I’d like to lose weight, dance with a sexy partner, and rip my shirt off at the start of the Viennese waltz. Though, that might not be the dance for it.

I’ll finish this up next week.