See she made her way from nothing. Can’t fault her for wanting some things… She wants to live fancy.
I’m having a hard time balancing my joy and humility. I’m not (always) a boastful person, but sometimes my life overwhelms me. I don’t mean to say that it’s “perfect” by definition, but perfect by me. It really doesn’t take much to please me. All I need is my rent paid, cute shoes on my feet and a $15 dress every once in a while. I talk labels because I love them –they make my heart swoon just like Frank Ocean (&lt;3)– but I have everything I need and sometimes I even get to do the things I want. I don’t have acres upon acres, but my grass is pretty green.
The only thing that bothers me on a day-to-day basis is what people think. Not that I give a damn what people think about me, but it does cross my mind. It’s the fact that it crosses my mind that peeves me. I hate that other people even cross my mind when my life is mines. And, to be honest, it’s the reason I don’t hang with too many females. When I get around girls, I wonder if I should be more like them. Are they smarter? Are they prettier? Are they funnier? Are they more interesting? Is she a better person than me? Can she cook? Does she clean? Can she do it like me? Can she work that body? Throw that a** like… (lol)? I mean… it can really tear a girl up. Especially at this age, when I’m running into more and more women with decorated ring fingers and here is mine; naked and semi-ashamed that I haven’t yet been claimed. And so I begin to think.. what is it about her that got her a ring before I got mine? Then I remember it’s not about the ring –but then again it is. I’m not the average. I understand. So the man who marries me won’t be either. With that said, it’s going to take us a while to get there while we sift the the rest of the commonplace people in the world. The average Jane can easily find the average Joe, but… I’m shit out of luck. I couldn’t be so ordinary. So I expect my private life and it’s path won’t be so simple.
I’m fortunate to be in a position to enjoy my life. Not necessarily financially, but spiritually. I have enough down time, enough relaxation to consider my place int he world and everything in relation to it. The one thing I’ve noticed, in my most complicated of thoughts, is that not every thought needs to be complicated. Sometimes, we (women especially) try to hard to present ourselves as intelligent and intellectual and we lose our actual selves. We’re so caught up on the shit we learn from books that we forget to pay attention to the things we learn in life. Don’t get me wrong, information is fascinating but life is exhilarating. There is endless information outside of us, but if you take the time to listen to the way your mind works, you can find that same brilliance within yourself. The key, though, is to understand that your own personal brilliance is unmatched.
I’m actually quite the package –complete with my pros and cons depending on who’s looking at me. But I’ve accepted myself as perfect: even in the areas in which I need improvement. For example, I’m not a very nice person, but I’m one of the nicest people you’ll ever meet if I like you. I’m a selfless friend, an attentive companion, an entertaining hostess, a fervent learner, a thoughtful worker and a complete person. But as I tromped up 5th Ave on Sunday in my most comfortable stilettos, I felt insecurity set in as I compared myself to some of the women around me. Maybe I should have worn flats, I thought to myself. Is this dress to fancy? I wondered. But in reality, I was wearing a $12 dress I got at H&amp;M (it was too hot for my jeans so I had to change outfits mid-shop session), set off by my patent BCBG Girls strappy stilettos so my high-low balance was magnificent. Sometimes, it’s a bit much to wear heels, but I’m a bit much, in general. And some women are opposed to it because it holds them back from walking normal and being a normal person but…I’m so good in shoes I sometimes surprise myself. I carried this girl’s baby carriage down the subway steps. No hands free. In my heels. This is normal to me.
Pretty is part of who I am. I care about labels. And I refuse to be ashamed of it. I care what I look like when I leave the house. I didn’t always. I was a sweat pants and Air Force One’s kinda girl growing up, but I’m a woman today and I’ve allowed myself to be. So I’m not worried about looking like all I care about is clothes, because the man who knows me, knows my intellect. And if he can’t see passed my MAC Studio Fix &amp; Maybelline Great Lash.. they hey. He must not be the one for me. I simply can’t be so bland. I can’t pretend not to care because it’ll make me a “shallow” person. I like what I like and that’s okay. Because I don’t save lives everyday, but I love my job. Your scrubs might get you respect, but my fashion outfit (all black everything, Prada bag to match [coming soon]) makes me feel good. The way I conduct myself commands respect. And once someone gets to know me, they surrender respect. I’m not worried about it. I sometimes come off as a ditz. I know it. I don’t give a shit really because I have so much information in my head I can’t let it take me over and drain me of my happiness. I think the problem is that I smile too much. Seems like I’m too happy to be intelligent. I dress to well to have read anything. I talk too much about money to care about anything else. But ummm… You ever notice that the people who claim to care about money the least care about it the most? They don’t want to spend it. Can’t let it go. Stash it up. For what? So you can swim in it like Uncle Scrooge?
We’re just afraid to be ourselves. We’re afraid to like pretty things because it makes us more base of a person. I met a girl this weekend, and she was fabulous, but I wouldn’t be friends with her on my own. No disrespect, I just know. “You’re so shallow, how am I friends with someone like you,” she asked rhetorically, aiming the question at my Carl. Now, anyone who knows me, know I’m too over protective of my friends. I was in the kitchen cooking a late breakfast and through the steam from my spinach, my brows furrowed as I tried to figure out where the ignorant comment came from. But, I’ve thought this though before and already know that all ignorant comments arise from the same place: Insecurity.
And I’m not one to trash talk… wait.. I am… but I didn’t when I could have. It’s a big accomplishment for me. I just silently ripped her apart (because I’m a good hostess) : The Seven Jeans. The Coach bag. The Burberry rain boots. The Polo shirt (I think, I didn’t pay much attention to the polo because I happen to despise collared shirts unless there’s a Burberry pattern on the reverse side and, at my job, Ralph Lauren and its subsidiaries are the enemy). But somehow, as we browsed the men’s store of Bergdorfs, I found myself overhearing her conversation about how “excessive” some things were (Carl was talking about watches) and caught wind of a slight…. “tude” when I was looking at a Want les Essentials de la Vie iPad case I might get my boss for Christmas because it is almost $300. $295 to be exact. The conversation was something about how a Honda and a BMW will both get you to the same place. My response? “Well one’s going to break down first.” Let’s look at the situation. Here’s a girl in a slew of labels (maybe all the labels she owns) in Bergdorf’s commenting on the excessiveness of fashion. Then buy Levi’s, hunny. And no one needs Burberry rain boots. Not to mention that Coach (wristlets &amp; change purses are okay) is out if you’re under 35. And… I simply haven’t seen a grown woman in a polo shirt since the last time I wanted a small fry &amp; the polo had the Golden Arches on the breastplate. My apologies, but this is what happens when you pretend not to like fashion when you actually do. You wear all the wrong shit. Please don’t knock my industry. No matter how big you think you are. We eat close to nothing, but our closets well-nourished and our arsenal well-maintained. We are an army of Davids, Goliath.
Now is it that I’m shallow? Or is it that I’m willing to admit that I like pretty things whereas the next girl will secretly fawn over labels hoping that no one and everyone notices? Or maybe it’s that I’ve entered into an industry and am drunk off the punch? I understand what I’m in. Where I am. I know how to do my job well and part of that is understanding fashion, it’s players, its demand, its costs, its prevalence and its place in our economy. It is a business just like any other. If you are a doctor, you know medicine. I am in fashion, so I know clothes. If you’re not complaining about how much healthcare costs, don’t complain about how much clothes cost either. Because I’m healthy. I’ve got change to spare and so I will spend it where I want to. You might be multi-viatamins, I buy shoes. &amp;, at the end of the day, it really doesn’t bother me because I place a silver necklace where your stethoscope lie.
Whatev. I’m a smart kid. I just also like to be fly. It’s okay to like nice things. The photo above is of my future home on Columbus Ave because The reason people get nice things is because it does make you happy. Not the thing itself, but in knowing that you’ve done something for yourself. In having a physical reminder of what you’ve accomplished. To a girl who’s mom busted her ass for some $70 Nikes, things mean something to me. Because its the same things I knew I could never have. Sometimes I sit and look at my closet and smile. Because I am grateful. Because I put all of that there. Because it makes me happy. Because I deserve it. Because I worked hard for it. And everyday, when I get dressed and put on the expensive things I bought just for me, I remember everything it took to get here. &amp; when I put on the things that were bought for me, I remember that others have also witnessed my worth. Everything I clip my Skagen, it snaps shut with the sound of gratitude. Every click of my heels –from Betsey to Nine West to BCBG to Lucky– hits the cement with a solid stride of pride. So forgive me for being such a base person, but maybe if I had had prettier things earlier, I’d be tired of them now. Unfortunately, that is not the case. Now, all I want to be is the girl with a big brain, big personality, big dreams and a big closet.
Like my CJ just said (the way it should be said), “I went college to do what? Shop at Target and drive a Chevy Cavalier?” No, babe, we sure as fuck did not.