Wannabe

Today I looked at all the chic twirty single/childless women, and was really sad. (mothers are infamously fashionless and, well....mumsy and have always been a source of horrific fascination for me -- those that are well-turned out are either rich (they can afford trainers, lipo, plastic surgery, lipo, and regular fillings of psychiatric drugs) or manic (they binge, purge, and time-manage every last second of their and their child's days, murdering any fun, free time, or enjoyment of life in the process) in my opinion) Simply put, I've come to this conclusion:

My best days are behind me.

My moments of glory when I could command attention as a woman are far gone. I can't command it from other women, as I am neither beautiful (a threat), rich (a source of envy) or powerful (a source of envy and/or scorn). I keep thinking of things I'll never have again, and it really is depressing. C. mentioned last night that we aren't 'poor', we live well, and did not take kindly to my pointing at a slew of half-million dollar lakehouses and saying, " Well, compared to them we are!"

I'm a wannabe. I wanna be thin and beautiful (they go together, y'know). I wanna be someone's lover. I wanna be wanted. I wanna be desired. I wanna be really good at something.