I arose from the couch, with cats laying lackadaisically prostrate around me, seeking the heat that is their loving owner and the fuzzy cat pad that is their obsession. Covered with yarn fragments and errant cat hairs, I noticed the indentation that my posterior had made on the green velvet couch, noticed that the grains of my $4.99 jean skirt from J. Crew that was purchased a size too large because, well, it was $4.99, had made a pattern in the velvet, noticed that I was sitting on one of the five remotes that still confuse me when I’m trying to turn up the volume. Traipsing into the kitchen to deliver a second helping of Parmesan couscous onto my blue and white Crate & Barrel plate (the perfect side-dish to a decadent pork tenderloin that yes, I DID cook all by myself!), I let the tears flow and noticed that one hit the rim of the plate with a big ‘plop.’ Yes, I was weeping into my food again.
I realized then that I may just have a problem after all.
Though I could likely blame it on some PMS-related function, I wasn’t crying over anything tragic. Not weeping for the poor in Africa, not sobbing over another broken heart (nope, don’t have one of those, for once!), not crying over anything really worth crying for. Alas, I was crying for a reason both embarrassing and somewhat pathetic.
I was crying for Sydney Bristow and Michael Vaughn.
The tragedy that these two are going through, it’s killing me. I mean, she’s been GONE for two years, and returns to find her beloved MARRIED to another woman? (And one with a mysterious English-esque accent, which I find all-the-more perplexing since apparently she’s from Virginia.) Poor Syd – she’s been through so much. The murder of her fiancé, the loss of her best friends (yes, both Francie and Will, who has been surprisingly absent thus far this season), the betrayal of her mother, the death of Sloane’s wife…where to begin? And just when she and Agent Vaughn were getting it on (and despite my horrific jealousy, since he’s been a permanent fixture on my top five list for a few years now), I was happy that they finally got together. I mean, isn’t it time to cut Syd a break?
Yes, I know. I gotta get some help. Anyone THIS obsessed with Alias needs a 12-step program.
Or a life.