She who lets go

Last month I saw a fortune-teller. The only scandalous thing that came out during the reading was the price.

Generally she told me that my life was going to be happy and stable, you know – kids, hubby, SUV. I asked her whether there were third-party intrusions in my happy life: Will there be a hot, rich Italian brat that will deliciously torment me? Or a cheap-smelling harlot on the prowl for my beloved? No.

A reading like that is a death sentence to a drama queen like me. It’s like living with the Golden Girls or the Seavers. I want the O.C. or at the very least a Veronica Mars kind of life. What about my memoirs?

What about it?

Anyway, I am in that kind of stable relationship. The kind that doesn’t encourage you to hack into his e-mails or read the messages on his phone. The kind you have to create ridiculous scenarios around just so you can have some tension in your lives. The kind of relationship that makes you fat.

I’ve seen smug vixens morph into marshmallows once they find happiness. When tight dresses and hair extensions don’t matter anymore, the highlight of their day is snuggling on the couch munching on kettle corn and watching infomercials while extolling the simple pleasures in life. Then, they get married and play card games with their country club pals. That sort of serenity scares me. I want intrigue, mischief and drama, but my boyfriend just won’t allow it. Every time I try to ruin a perfect moment, he just gives me a look that says he’s not playing with me.

True love does make you reach for that kettle corn, among other things. It turns you into a bore. While you are more settled and complete, you become less complicated. You become Donna as opposed to Brenda or Kelly on 90210. You get tired of going out, and before you know it, you become one of those smug couples who stay in that you used to hate when you were desperate and unhappy.

I mean it is a good thing. It’s much better than the random horrors of dating without a leash. But true love and happiness again have their hidden disadvantages.

I’ve discovered them and made sure that I won’t let these little suckers get in the way of my having a fabulous life.

• Don’t turn into the Michelin woman. Since I’ve found true love, I’ve also found gym memberships in almost every fitness club in the country. From Pilates to boxing to regular sessions with my trainer Abbie, I’m making sure that all those fattening aphrodisiacs won’t show in my belly, although photographers at Tim Yap’s watch launch asked me if I was pregnant while I had a glass of bubbly in my hand. I guess I have to double up on those classes – this fascist party scene indeed! But since I’m now more drawn to become a nymph than an emaciated clothes hanger that I was in my single past, I cannot starve for fashion. Men like meat, promise. Just don’t turn into a cow.

• Don’t lose your fashion mojo. Women in love feel that after a while sweats and ratty T-shirts are a sign of intimacy. Never. Get. Too. Comfortable. Prance around in delicious satins and party dresses just because. Stay pretty even if it is a kettle corn night. Don’t forget the fragrance. Guys, after all, are dogs and they will always remember a scent more than that georgette blouse. Stay in love with yourself in that healthy, self-help book kind of way.

• Try to be stupid together. Smug couples can be annoying, and if you weren’t part of one, you would have uninvited yourself to every fete as well. Even if everything is perfect, always make an effort to outdo your bliss. With imperfect moments.

• If you can’t seem to fight over anything, have a pillow fight.

• Peel yourself off the couch and go out. Wear something nice and eat something that makes you dizzy. Drink those stupid pretentious cocktails and pretend to pick each other up. Also don’t forget your friends. A girl’s/gay’s night out is a perfect excuse for an obnoxious outfit.

After doing all these things, remember to tell yourself that you are a cynical pig. Things pretty much fall into place after that.