(Mrs. Hot is having thrilling summer adventures. The titillation, transformation and inspiration returns in September.)
IN WHICH I BEGIN THE TRANSFORMATION FROM SHOT TO HOT.
Now if there’s one thing my coyly unspecified number of years on this earth (alright, just between us, fifty-eight of the pesky things) have taught me it’s the power of focus to attract what you want. And at this time in my life my laser-like concentration is on having the most fun and never, never having to think about something unpleasant like how I’m going to pay the maintenance on my fabulous Upper East Side co-op triplex. My name IS Mrs. Hot, and I am, of course, divorced, but that ill-fated marriage happened when I was young and silly, falling for a hot man long on charm and short on money. Were I to make that commitment now, I’d require a man long on everything — and I do mean EVERYTHING. Not to mention, circumferentially gifted. But I digress.
Have you ever noticed how anything you do is preceded by the choice to do it, then a picture of it in your mind’s eye, no matter how brief? For example, at this moment it occurs to me I simply MUST get a moth hole in my favorite cowl neck trapeze jacket rewoven since the fall chill is coming on, if I want to spend autumn in a glorious blaze of traffic-stopping orange–set off to perfection by a black To Catch a Thief catsuit, of course (even though Mrs. Hot is writing these days, the fashion designer in me lives on, natch). So I picture that errand to Jeeves, the best resource for reweaving in New York, and then the steam of desire and will powers that imagining into reality.
All dreams, indeed, begin with just that, a vision, and knowing that focus is EVERYTHING — that only that which receives the most constant, fixed attention will manifest physically — I started out my epic makeover quest by creating a vision board. I paid a visit to the art store — an errand, yes, pictured, then powered into reality — and bought a sturdy black foam-core 24” X 36” poster board and began coalescing my dream existence in pictures glued to it.
For years I’d ripped photos out of magazines of places I love, dream homes, beautiful clothes, gorgeous men, hot designs, people I admire. I had no aim in collecting these images, I was just strongly compelled to keep them, so enamored was I of terracotta-roofed villas in the South of France; the azure allure of a Greek island, its houses starched white like first communion dresses; the classic beauty of Grace Kelly in an Edith Head dress; the talent and utter sizzle of Mikhail Baryshnikov.
This last example, my idea of perfection in a man — the sensitivity of an artist combined with the physical heat of a thoroughbred stud, and as a foreigner, moreover, with an accent irresistible to me — had been a particular favorite of mine, ever since I’d attended an all-girls prep school and we were bussed to ballet performances at the Kennedy Center.
Though these cultural outings were intended to edify and refine us young ladies, we pubescent nymphs were most eagerly engaged in training our opera glasses on Baryshnikov and the other hot male dancers — appreciating at fifteen the talent bursting in that leotard bulge far more than Balanchine’s impressive choreography.
Years later I would watch Baryshnikov’s appearances on Sex and the City on the beyond-aroused edge of my damp seat, his role as Carrie’s lover — and not mine –as cruel a tease as any since literary Heathcliff and Anatole Kuragin (yes, even fictionally I LOVE the bad boys!) first eluded my languorous longing.
I now put images of Baryshnikov — a flesh and blood character, at least, and one who lives in New York! — to magical use on my vision board. Right next to Sean Penn, another immensely talented, artistic and excitingly volatile hunk as well as softhearted mensch, whose astrological chart so beautifully mirrors mine our inevitable union seems written in the stars themselves. Note to Sean: text me!
No less important than my romantic dreams was the grouping for literary success, since I was writing a book and intended to write full time: Hemingway, Camus, Hitchens, de Beauvoir, Faulkner, Anais Nin. Equally essential was the potpourri of beauty and weight loss inspiration in the form of sundry screen lovelies. Since my preferred female form was no longer my Sixties childhood-influenced svelte greyhound — chic for clothes, indeed, little more than a hanger for them — the androgynous silhouette of a thirteen-year-old boy would hardly do for me now that I had embraced my full feminine fabulousness.
No, nothing short of the hourglass of a total goddess would measure up for me. Because in my humble opinion, la dolce vita is best embodied — and enjoyed — by a woman whose slightest movement roars VA VA VOOM.
In this way I combined my aspirations for health, beauty, love, sex, money, career and home into a one stop shopping visual experience, emphasizing the collage highlights with artfully scattered captions in different fonts and sizes shouting the likes of “MILLIONS OF DOLLARS” and “HOT SEX” and “I WEIGH 140 POUNDS,” my fighting weight–cockfighting, that is. And in the center of it all, the concept cherished more by me than any other, “I AM FREE.”
On the back I wrote that day’s date after “Date Completed:” and left a blank space after the words “Date Manifested.” Notice the sense of expectation there, which is KEY to receiving whatever you want: expectation means you BELIEVE IT IS YOURS AND YOU DESERVE IT! I placed the vision board where I would see it frequently — in front of where I write — but even if I’m not looking at it directly, my focus soldiers on, maintained there in 2D while it slowly but surely morphs into 3D manifestation.
Next up: Because LIFE IS A MOVIE AND WE ARE THE DIRECTOR, for mine to be the Romantic Comedy I crave I must take action on the dreams in my vision board — yes, it gives an amazing boost from focus and intention, but after all, fabulous is not going to fabricate itself!
Lights! Camera! Action!
Yours truly,
