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I still don’t know what I’m going to wear to Sarah’s party on Saturday. Every day, I slide open the doors, stare at my shabby excuse for a wardrobe, shake my head and slide it closed again in frustration. It’s like I’m hoping I’ll open my closet one day and something acceptable will appear, but it never happens. This is just one reason I didn’t want to go. Sarah also invited Angela and they have all of these wealthy entrepreneur type friends. They all own their own businesses or are self-employed and are on this happy trip about being their own bosses, so all they want to do is talk shop. They assume I’m an entrepreneur like them and when I say I’m not, they seem confused or disappointed. I can’t tell which. I had a horrible time the last time Sarah invited me out to dinner with these same friends, and having nothing to wear, which is the story of my life, isn’t helping.
I’ve learned how to shop smart and how to dress for your body type, but what good is this information if I don’t have the means to apply it to my life?
I sit on the floor with my legs crossed and my chin resting in my hand. First one tear then another one slides down my cheek and onto my lap, making wet spots, darkening the color of the denim where they land.
I insisted on giving Sabrina back her jeans.
“No, no, no keep them!” she exclaimed. “I hardly even wear them anymore.”
I need those jeans a heck of a lot more than she does, but they don’t belong to me.
“Nope, they’re yours,” I said and balanced them on her shoulder because she wouldn’t take them. She absolutely would not miss those jeans, but I refuse to accept handouts.
Why can’t I just be Eve? Beauty queen hair tied up with perfection and a closetful of cocktail dresses to go along with it. Or Sabrina. Or Melody. God, her life is perfect. I’ve been stalking her on Instagram and it’s just one envy-inducing picture after another. When she’s not teaching people how to be like her, she gallivants around the globe doing cool things and looking amazing while doing them. Her Instagram is curated by the My Life is Awesome Gallery of grainy filters and long, lithesome limbs.
At the grocery store, I was shocked to discover how expensive just a single pound of chicken is, and the Greek Yogurt Melody recommended is twice as much as the sugar laden one I’m used to buying. I thought I might join a gym to get fit, but between the initiation fee, the monthly fee, and the annual fee, I was so confused and overwhelmed, I quit looking.
I dig through my nightstand and pull out Fundamentals of Personal Growth. Feel Good More Often...Don’t just set goals, reach them...Make your dream job a reality. I frantically flip through the pages, searching for inspiration. But how? I need someone to tell me exactly what to do. I thought I was beginning to understand how this whole feel good thing works, but right now I might as well be reading Russian. Angrily, I toss the book across the room. It hits the wall and falls to the ground with a soft thud that’s far too quiet and not at all reflective of my rage. That incredible high I felt in acting class, performing my monologue for Earl, is gone. Sitting here now, staring at the white walls of my tiny studio, that feeling seems further away than ever. The sound of the neighbor’s toilet flushing travels through paper thin walls, reminding me of all the money I’ve spent on Chloe Dillon. Money I didn’t have, down the toilet because I’m unfixable.
It dawns on me that life is a twisted lottery that not everyone is meant to win, and I allow the vortex of negativity I’ve so cunningly avoided for the last few months to draw me in. I can’t stop, and it’s not just because I don’t have a stupid dress to wear to a stupid party. I mean it is, but it isn’t. How silly of me to think that going to a modeling school could miraculously change my life. It’s only 8:00 p.m., but I take off my casual Friday mom jeans, turn out the lights, and fall into bed, pulling the covers up around my ears. Maybe my closet will look different in the morning.
