Cascade Soap

Every day at four o'clock, I stop whatever I'm doing to watch my favorite soap. I take the phone off the hook, lock the door, sitting over a cup of freshly brewed coffee, and escape. It became an addiction. One that I like to have.

Almost every time I do that, I am amazed to see how to improve the lives of these people are than mine. There are some basic facts, ladies and gentlemen, that apply only to those soap opera, women in particular.

The women in soap operas are still of extraordinary beauty. The women in soap operas do not work in a room, they slip. The women in soap operas are never without a man of more than three hours. In other words, if their relationship history book is about to break, you can always be assured that there is another Adonis waiting just around the scene. The women in soap operas never do laundry, clean toilet bowls, or vacuum. Women are the soap operas have never held a single hair or a fingernail chipped. I remember one particular scene, because it shows that parallel to the same situation in my life. I was at the airport to say goodbye to my friend. A young woman on the series was at the airport to say goodbye to her lover.

I will never forget how she looked. A perfectly shaped tear glistened on her face light up. The wind blew through his bright blond hair. (I used to wonder where the wind came from the middle of the airport). A symphony of Beethoven playing in the background, and dozens of beautiful, white Casablanca lilies cascading around her from the sky (there must be a hole in the roof of the airport), that her lover took her hand in hers and kissed it tenderly.

In my scenario, there was much more of a tear. My face is not bright, it was wet. He did not shine, it was too steeped in mascara and pancakes are to shine too. The music that I remember Sony Walkman was a strange projection of looking for something less romantic in the background. I particularly remember this because it covered the sound of all that my friend told me at the time. I have a strong suspicion, farewell, but I do not know for sure.

Humans behave differently on the soap. Have you ever seen people swimming in a soap? The women arrive at the pool in gold dresses rolled wrapping their tiny bikinis, which correspond to spots of gold in their eyes. Men, I am sure, come directly from their previous employment with the magazine Playgirl. If the parties fail to get wet, you can be assured that as they emerge from the water, hair pieces suddenly perfectly in the middle of their foreheads, miraculously, like the separation of the Sea Red. The bodies of men shining with oil. Somehow, a small man with a can of oil must have been there at the bottom of the pool. Several times, I waited my pool, (as), hoping a man, every man, come out, tanned and oiled like that, but in vain.

And have you ever noticed what it means to be sick on a soap? It makes you want to run out and gather as many seeds as you can find, just so you can be allowed in these wonderful places of recovery. terminally ill patients never looks terminal on a soap. They look beautiful. They are perfectly formed in their beds at Wamsutta while being attended by physicians who looks remarkably like Robert Redford and Tom Cruise.

And most of them seem to have sudden and miraculous recoveries. Of course, with physicians as those who could blame them. Even the dead on soaps look wonderful. If I really need to go one day, please God, be it on a soap. I want the world to remember me this way.

Make no mistake. T.