Don’t you admire those women, the ones who have their shiz together? The ones who open their purses without ritz cracker crumbs falling out; the ones who walk down cobblestone streets without scuffing their boots; the ones who wear classy pendants, not peanut butter fingerprints, around their necks.
The ones who have never, ever, run to catch a bus.
Maybe they were born that way, maybe they weren’t; maybe they’re mothers and maybe their not. Maybe their lives are ridiculously easy, maybe they live a secret hell—I couldn’t say; I’ve never dared to ask one.
But I love to watch them. There are so many here. It’s not a peasant thing, no French revolution brewing, nothing unjust in their perfection. I don’t hate, resent, or even envy those women. I just appreciate, admire.
I don’t aspire, not at all, because the truth is, even if I had all the money, help, and time in the world, I still wouldn’t be put together. I’d love to blame my children for making me decidedly less sexy, but the truth is, I was never a kitten to begin with. Before the kids, there was the art—years and years, and finally a degree, in art, which means I dressed like a dockworker, one doused in smelly paints and chemicals, for quite a lot of my life. Hot.
I have, in fleeting moments, thought that with enough effort, I could become one of those women. Then I would sober up and realize that was never going to happen—that poise, supreme organization, and style aren’t things you can just pick up like knitting. They require commitment, determination, and probably better genes than I possess. This used to bum me out, but now I think it’s kind of a relief—being put together looks exhausting. It’s something best left to the experts. I’ll spend my energies elsewhere.
But still sigh with admiration whenever I see them, like I do for Olympic athletes and Nobel Prize winners. Rock on, perfect sisters, rock on.