OVERDOSE

I wish I could regale you with tales of going to midnight raves and doing ecstasy with college boys or snorting coke with the local Good Humor dude, but my overdose was on Project Runway, the second season. The reason why I watched it isn't important. Let's just say I had to, for work. No, really.

I spent the last two nights watching the four DVD set that you can purchase for yourself, legally, and get hooked, too.

After settling into a comfortable spot each night, I viewed every episode from last year. From the amusing selection of the semi finalists through each and every agonizing episode of winners and losers until someone was anointed THE NEXT GREAT DESIGNER. Since I was a virgin to the show, I had no idea what would happen from one episode to the next. That may have contributed to my addiction.

Before watching these sixteen or so drama queens of both genders suffer personal meltdowns, footstomping temper tantrums, forked tongued whiplashings, and eyerolling, hands on hips disgust with one another, I had heard about Project Runway, but I only caught the opening once. That's the part that seems almost normal, when Heidi Klum gives the assignment.

But, I noticed, as I began my marathon, as soon as the contestants began to speak, it became apparent that these people were creative, yes, but also very disturbed, in an entertaining way, as opposed to say, a homicidal way.

Luckily, I'm fascinated by crazy people as long as they're safely contained in the pixals of my computer, since that's where I viewed everything. 

In fact, after getting used to the high dose of nutso behavior, I began to develop a tolerance for it.  And looked forward to my next hit with the same anticipation as any junkie. Like many high doses of drugs, the effect of one show after another after another becomes hallucinatory. I began to feel like I was sitting with or working among them. I was somehow even becoming one of them. I began to think, HEY, I could make something, too. I can do that!!  Maybe I should try my hand at this designing clothes stuff. I sewed Halloween costumes for my daughters one year. What's so hard anyway?

You think I'm kidding.
 
Here's how I know I had finally overdosed:  Last night, after I'd watched the final episode, where that megalomaniacal horse's ass, Santino, FINALLY got sent on his way, along with Daniel V, whose collection looked like he'd scoured Salvation Army for ideas -- I had a dream. An up close and personal dream about Tim Gunn.

Tim Gunn is the head of design at Parsons The School for New Design [Is that a pretentious New York name or what?]  He is a longtime fashion icon and acts as mentor to the contestants. Tim Gunn, in case you haven't figured out by now, is also gay, which is a good thing for fashion, but not for heterosexual encounters in one's dreams. Or should I say, that's the only place I could dream up an "encounter" with him.

But it made sense, if sense needs to be made. With his pinstriped suits and conservative appearance, he could almost pass for straight at first glance. Until he speaks and moves. Ooops, gay. But in the midst of the turmoil and madness of the contestants trying to meet deadlines, he offered a firm, but soothing voice of reason and encouragement, keeping them on track with good humor and gentle admonitions. He is a nice guy.

The good news is that I like that I finally like that in a man. Maturity?  Or lack of estrogen. You be the judge.

Especially considering that my relationship history includes enough men from our nation's special forces to form a platoon of trained killers.

On the other hand, I wonder who I'd dream about after watching sixteen nonstop episodes of COPS? 

These are the questions Mrs. Linklater asks the universe.