QUING of the WORLD

At least twice a day I read, hear or see something that makes me think, “If I was King of the World, I’d…”

“But you can’t be King of the world,” I scold me. “No testosterone. No receding hairline (well, no obvious receding hairline.) You are XX, baby. That makes you Queen of the World.”

“Oh yeah?” I challenge. “If XYs can be queens, why can’t XXs be kings? I want ultimate power. No arguing or usurping allowed.”

“If you were King of the World, you’d never have time to ponder such insanity,” I insist.

“I wouldn’t be cleaning or cooking, shopping or chauffeuring,” I counter.  “No working. Mending. Hobnobbing. Tending. I’d have all the time in the world to contemplate.”

“Contemplate what?” I ask me.

OUTRAGEOUSNESS.  HILARITY. RIDICULOCITY (Sarah Palin makes up words, why can’t I?) SIMPLICITY. INSANITY.  JOY. FRUSTRATION. PARENTHOOD (see Joy and Frustration.) LIFE and LOVE and…

 “There’s a whole lot going on in that head of yours, girl,” I tell me. “Get a grip. A planet of laundry awaits.  There’s dinner to make, and a baseball/basketball/volleyball team that needs to hear your obnoxious cheering!”

Can’t ever be King. 

Will never be Queen. 

So I hereby declare myself ‘QUING of the WORLD’! 

My first decree? 

I make all the rules.

This is gonna be fun.