I could see it from afar—a sparkling clean, white BMW. The kind with a cute little lip on the back of the hood, mimicking a spoiler. Only way cooler.
When I pulled up next to it, at the stoplight, it only got worse. Inside were two girls. Two of those girls.
You know when you’re at your house getting ready to go out, and you’re thinking you look really cute. You’re feeling the look. You strut to the car, and march right into the bar (or club, or coffee house, or bookstore, or grocery store) with all the confidence in the world.
Then you see one. A girl that makes you feel like absolute shit. Because she looks amazing. The kind of amazing that only she can look and you never could. Or well, maybe with daddy’s credit card, a trust fund, and a plastic surgeon on call, then you could.
I know (or at least I hope) I’m not the only one who must feel this way from time to time.
Now, don’t start thinking I have low self-esteem or something. I don’t. I think I’m cute—5’3, 120 pounds, a heavy spray tan, dyed brunette locks. But then, there are those girls. In fact, there are two types of women who intimidate me just by the way they look.
1. The natural beauties.
These ladies can roll out of bed, put their hair in a ponytail, put on jeans and a t-shirt and look good (think: Jennifer Anniston). That is not me. When I wake up, I look like I’ve been hit by a truck, my hair is in knots, and I’m usually in a horrid mood.
2. The plastics.
The bitches have the latest styles—of everything. They are, as J-Woww says, fresh-to-death. Processed hair, usually in long ringlets, skinny, tan, tall, new outfits, expensive purses, hot cars (think: the Kardashians).
I just will never and can never look like that. Yes, I color my hair. But that’s about it. I don’t wear a lot of makeup, and I can’t afford new clothes all the time. And when I can, I shop at Banana and JCrew, not Saks. Cute shoes for the bar almost never come into my budget. I wear the same heels to the bar until they fall apart. No, seriously.
A few weeks ago, I was out with my coworkers, when a group of plastics walked in. I asked one of the guys—what do you think of those girls? I could never look like that. He said, “yeah they look good. But I would never know what to say to one of those girls.”
Eh, good point. And yes, I know they probably live off their parents’ money or are strippers or something, while I make an honest living and pay for everything myself, which is why I can’t afford red-soled shoes and BMWs.
But still, when I pulled up next to that white BMW, in my Explorer that’s nearing it’s death, I felt like Avril Lavigne next to Lauren Conrad. I was on my way home from Target, my only outing for the day, as I was feeling like crap and really looking forward to a Saturday night on my couch. Then I saw these two girls, one blonde, one brunette, in their perfect car, perfect hair, pretty sunnies, fresh manicures…
I wanted to die.
I suddenly didn’t feel so cool about my night in. They were probably off to some huge mansion with perfect marble floors and huge closets, filled with the latest from BCBG. Then, they would go to some awesome night club, full of hot guys, and everything would just be perfect.
In college, there were a lot of girls like this in my sorority. Which is probably why I hated it so much. I had to work a lot to afford little things, like going out to dinner or to the bar, when most everyone else could charge it to a family credit card. Of course, I learned a lot about work and money because of that, but I feel like those same girls still live the same way and will probably never need to learn financial lessons. They will marry a replacement for daddy and live their lives accordingly.
There is only one thing that can solve this problem (aside from a wasp swatter):
Speaking of wasps, Brad picked one on The Bachelor last night. I was wrong from day one, and I was nothing but stunned. I know most of America just loved Emily, but I think she’s as boring as dirt and about as fun as a pity party. She didn’t even get excited when he proposed! Ugh.