Columnist Melissa Schorr: The breeding of our discontent

I've got only one more week to stroll down the Street of Dreams.

Thanks, but I think I'll pass.

The last thing I need is to go "oooh" and sigh over those $2 million family manses up in Seven Hills, fantasizing about some Barbie Dream House for adults that I'll never be able to afford.

Why torture myself? So I can go back to what was formerly-known-as my princely apartment and curse its lack of a bidet?

I've got a better plan. I'm taking the $7.50 Street of Dreams entrance fee and investing in a good mutual fund. With compound interest and another bull run on the Dow, I figure by about oh, say, 2037, I can afford a down payment on one of the shingles.

They say Thou Shalt Not Covet, but of course we do. In fact, sometimes I think we covet with gusto, gazing upon what we don't have until we're dissatisfied with what we do.

I try to avoid cultivating envy whenever possible. I promptly recycle my Williams-Sonoma catalogue, rather than salivate over culinary feats I'll never achieve. And I avoid Martha Stewart like the plague.

But most people seem to delight in self-inflicting misery.

The epitome of such behavior, in this town, is the fabled bachelor/bachelorette party. I was dragged along on one recently against my better (i.e. sober) judgment, ending up crotch-level across from a body so gleaming I swore I could see my reflection in it.

The theory here, if I have it correctly, is marking one's final evening of freedom by tormenting oneself with a glimpse (all right, a long, drawn-out leer) at the very definition of unattainable.

Is it me, or does everyone have this totally backwards?

Why go gently into that good night, dear, with an evening of "What Ifs" and "Could Have Beens" (and, more likely, "Get Real, Not in This Lifetimes")? Why dredge up nuggets of regrets?

When it's my time to go, I'd rather stare directly into the horror they call single life, revisiting my last moments of freedom with a stroll down meat market lane.

I'd begin the evening with, say, a succession of Blind Dates from Hell, then progress directly to The Beach, where I'd spend my time trying not to get mauled. After that, who'd have any morning-of doubts?

This plan, I may add, applies equally to both sexes.

Gentleman, I feel your pain, your anxiety -- alright, your full-blown, mother-of-God, oncoming panic attack -- about committing to one woman for an eternity. Well, who wouldn't, after a night of gazing upon the finest in beauty our race has to offer?

For your own sake, I'd suggest spending your final evening of freedom checking out the talent at the local Wal-Mart. Or the bingo parlor. Or just about any buffet line.

In fact, you'd think strip clubs would be catering to this untapped market, offering naked homely folks for brides and grooms-to-be to view for reassurance before taking the plunge. Afterwards, we'd all be walking down that aisle with a huge grin and a sigh of relief.

So when it's time to sign on the dotted line for the mortgage or the marriage, you won't find me gazing up at hilltop mansions and human deities.

I'll be down in the valley, enjoying one long last leer at the slums and the slugs -- and counting my blessings.

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