If Giada de Laurentiis calls now and asks me for three kilos of best Scottish salmon, you know what I do? I drop everything and speed dial the Edinburgh fish markets. Or London. Tokyo. Wherever I can find what she wants.
If Samantha Cameron aka Mrs British Prime Minister texts and asks me to tea at #10 Downing Street tomorrow, I see there’s still enough time to make the British Airways flight to Gatwick.
On the other hand, if Lady GaGa’s handlers emailed wanting me to participate in her newest video, I’d be resentful of the intrusion. Who wants to be in a GaGa shoot?
Let’s be clear. Guys and girls both have a fantasy life, driven by our imaginations. That’s normal, with the one caveat that we don’t act on our delusions. There should be an inviolable wall between daydream indulgence and real life. If not, you’re psychotic. Please seek help.
My real life has no intersection with either Giada or SamCam. Or Germanotta, happily. I’m sufficiently self-aware to understand that the first two are but a passing fancy. Catalogue-browsing. Window-shopping. Nothing more. And, fundamentally, nothing.
The woman for whom I really would drop everything to find Scottish salmon, or travel around the world with no notice, is the woman who might actually be in my life, for whom I want to give my life. She’s the person to whom I aspire, the connection for which we all thirst.
That’s also what she would understand. She’d laugh at my dopey thoughts about unattainable women about whom I know nothing anyway. Likewise I’d (lovingly) mock her “thing” for Bono. Or Prince Harry.
Giada’s just a girl to me, even if she is currently on the pull. GaGa’s less than zero. SamCam’s happily married. But whomever that mysterious non-famous special woman is, she’s the goddess.