Business, Government Legal News from throughout WVIn my mind, my more beautiful life Is a bit more stunning than reality

Despite my best efforts, my house is stuffed with clutter, my kitchen floor is always dirty and there is endless laundry to fold. I am never caught up on email; I forget to take the cat to have her nails clipped and I hate to talk on the phone. In my more beautiful life, none of this would ever happen.

When I was 20, I aspired to living life tastefully, with nothing on my counter tops except possibly one perfect rose. I envisioned myself swimming with dolphins, eating at the best restaurants and traveling only on private jets. I also dreamt of a storybook family. I would leap enthusiastically from bed, sing a refrain of "Oh, What a Beautiful Morning," kiss my 6-foot, 5-inch lantern-jawed husband who has a body like Ryan Reynolds and speaks nine languages, and pick up my 2-year-old, who just finished another Rubik's Cube. I would look in the mirror, out of habit, just in case I should need a little something, and then flip my hair into place and laugh a knowing laugh that says, "I don't even know why I bother to buy makeup."

Reality was just a touch different. My children are wonderful, and the sun rises and sets on my grandchild. But, when they visit, they leave sodden towels piled on the bathroom floor, they never put the scissors back where they belong, and they stay up really late. When did I turn into such a grump? Marriage was a challenge and two husbands came and went. I have had a series of semi-committed old man friends who all passed gas and thought that reading the sports page was high literature.

I used to be able to do 14 things at once, all of them perfectly, but now I fall apart if I have to stir oatmeal and make coffee at the same time. I entertain reasonably well, because I know how to cook, but after a recent dinner party of racks of lamb, crisp-tender green beans with whiskey-glazed chestnuts and smoked sweet potatoes, my kitchen looked as if someone had painted it with lamb juice and sweet potato goo. The dishes didn't get done until two days later, and I took to my bed, halfway through the exercise, with the vapors. There is still sweet potato goo in the hard-to-reach crevices.

I still have a rich fantasy life, involving the Hunky Guy from the gym, and in these breathless scenes, I have no wrinkles. The reality isn't bad, just different. The Hunky Guy and I are actually really good friends and spend a decent amount of time together, laughing. He tries to educate me on which movies to watch and I still edit his writing. We both love Lee Child's books and "Breaking Bad" on AMC. We occasionally fall upon 2-inch thick porterhouse steaks, which I bring back from Washington, D.C., or Omaha, but it hurts my feelings to report that there is no languid licking of lips or staring deeply into each other's eyes. Movie buff that he is, I don't think the Hunky Guy is old enough to remember the book, "Tom Jones."

In my more beautiful life, I don't have to worry about finances, work 12-hour days or vacuum and my cat doesn't shed. My garden flourishes, and I am always a perfect size 6. And blonde. My age is the same as my bra size, and I'm in MENSA. Instead of an 11-year old hulk, I drive a Jaguar. HGTV comes to redo my house and they search tirelessly for something to improve and then admit that it's perfect just the way it is. In my more beautiful life, I am always politically correct instead of hiking around with my foot perpetually inserted into my mouth. I can vamp a tune and belt the blues. In my more beautiful life, I am just so darned good.

I think the problem is that I've always had too active an imagination. I was the heroine of every book that I read, and whether I was busily being Jo in "Little Woman" or Anne with an "E" in "Anne of Green Gables," I was always a headliner. I got straight As, and the teachers always adored me. Reality is that no matter how active my imagination, I still am the one who has to change the sheets and pretend that my closets are perfectly organized. And labeled.

My more beautiful life is certainly the stuff of novels, possibly not great ones, and while I may gripe occasionally about my reality, I can't complain. 

I survived cancer. I have wonderful friends who support me. I have a smart, musical granddaughter who loves to do the Hokey Pokey. I have a daughter and son-in-law who are happy, funny and creative. I love my job, and I have chances to show off. Hope springs eternal with the Hunky Guy.

Will there ever be a time, however, when my counter tops show off just one perfect rose?

Lynne D. Schwabe was owner of Schwabe-May in Charleston, ran her own marketing consulting firm and is a nationally recognized motivational speaker. She has been featured in The New York Times, The Washington Post, Women's Wear Daily and has appeared on CNBC's "Power Lunch." She is now director of development for the National Youth Science Foundation.