One of my good friends, who’s been living in Europe for the past eight years, announced the other day that he’s probably moving back to the states.
Thinking about it, he probably…
…won’t have to get all dressed up to go to the store to buy a hammer or a sponge or a pencil.
…won’t have to wear clothing that actually fits.
…will have to learn the difference between ‘relaxed’ and ‘casual’ fit.
…won’t have to talk about anything except real estate prices.
…won’t have to worry about anything except the price of gas and Paris Hilton.
…won’t have to wonder what all the fuss is about Eurovision.
…will get to shop on Sundays.
…will get to shop after 7pm.
…will get to shop 24/7.
…will have to get a prescription to get prescription drugs.
…will have to worry about getting arrested for mooning and being registered as a sex offender.
…will get to return absolutely anything, no matter what condition it’s in, without a three hour discussion about it and several reams of paperwork to fill out.
…will get to have his medical decisions made by someone more knowledgeable than his doctor.
…will wonder who thinks Ann Coulter deserves more than three seconds of time on public airwaves.
…won’t have to worry about anyone else in the world.
Unless they’ve come up with something cool to buy.
…won’t have to know who Ralitsa Vassileva, Femi Oki, Fionnuala Sweeny, Hala Gorani and Richard Quest are.
…will be able to get panicky minute-by-minute weather forecasts which track each drop of rain and gust of wind (which go ballistic is there’s even a remote possibility of a storm) on the local news station.
…will be able to get minute-by-minute playbacks of Paris Hilton entering and leaving prison as well as various celebutants going in, and out, of rehab.
…won’t have to explain, “Talk to the hand, girlfriend” has nothing to do with a hand or a girlfriend.
…won’t have to worry about seeing a woman’s breast on television.
…will have to worry about seeing a woman’s head blown to smithereens on television.
…will get to witness every phase in the life of Anna Nicole Smith’s baby, courtesy of Larry King.
…will have to talk at parties about real estate prices, his kitchen remodel, the noise his wine refrigerator makes, how his stock options are doing, how difficult it is to find sheets with an acceptable thread count, what an asshole his contractor is, and who will be the next co-host on The View.
…won’t get to walk just outside his front door to find fresh bread.
…will have to drive to the other side of his city to find fresh bread.
…won’t have to worry about getting sick from any of those scary raw-milk cheeses those crazy Europeans eat.
…won’t have to obsess about le cholestérol.
…will have to obsess about carbs.
And growth hormones.
…will completely understand what his haircutter is telling him so he doesn’t end up looking like his scalp got stuck in a trash disposal, or a greased-up Mohawk.
…will get to watch Food Network as much as he wants.
…will learn what a ‘tablescape’ is.
…will feel his brain turn to mush.
…will actually get to pick out for himself the food he’s wants at the market.
…will be able to sleep on a sidewalk for three days waiting to buy an overpriced electronic gadget that will be widely available the following day. And cheaper, next month. And obsolete, next year.
…will be able to call customer service lines…for free!
…but won’t understand a word they’re saying since they live in far-away lands—but that’ll be okay since they’ll have no idea what he’s talking about either.
…won’t have to trim his underarm hair anymore.
…won’t have to carry a man-purse anymore.
…won’t have to worry if there’s going to be a bathroom around.
…won’t have to argue if the cashier rings up the wrong price at the supermarket.
…but he won’t have to worry about a nice place to stay in Paris complete with daily visits to the fish-boys, our open bar tab at a certain hot-spot in Lyon, finally going to Chez Pauline for poulet de Bresse and Thanksgiving dinner…wherever we are.