Don't EVER let me become like THEM. The robot women. The wusses who give in to years of programming and brainwashing until they believe that life is meant to be wasted on Manolo Blahniks, ungratifying careers, and boring roles as the affluent wives and girlfriends of fashionista men who are too busy drinking with the boys to notice their women are miserable.
I met a group of these alien breeds today, and I tried to like them, I really did. I tried to overlook their snobbery when they complained that poor people shouldn't be allowed to ride the bus. I could have leapt up and hurled the hummus out their panoramic city view window right then and there, but I actually tried to be understanding of their let-them-eat-cake perspective as they traded pastel cashmere sweaters, silk blouses, and halfhearted sighs.
They were painfully boring, all except for one girl from New York who was clearly too colorful for these miserable people who might as well have just walked off the set of Desperate Housewives or Sex In The City -- Although I've never been able to stand either of those shows long enough to be able to sit through an entire episode, so I can't say for sure.
So there I sat. Me in my knee high docs and black pixie hair, listening to the cult of pastels complain endlessly about their relationships, their jobs, their lives, and the disgrace of having to share public transit with the lower castes. Of course they made sure to work into the conversation that they'd all been to reputable grad schools and had traveled to at least six countries. (I've been to 13, so nyeh!) But instead I watched them rattle on with stale commentary about the latest self help audio book or the latest advice of their therapists.
They claim they never go to shows or clubs. As far as I could tell they don't have any extracurricular hobbies or talents either, besides therapy. They rarely laughed, and when they did, it was as if they were faking it. I was shocked to hear they actually go to Burning Man once a year, probably because it's the ONLY place where they actually allow themselves to be human. (God forbid if anyone was allowed to express themselves for more than one week per year.)
They all happened to be Russian, so at some point they found out my husband was Russian. Later someone made the catty remark "wow, look at that, everyone here is either Russian or screwing one."
Wow, look at that. A bitch.
But one good thing came of the party. After hearing about the surfacey loveless and/or sexless relationships they have, I am left thinking that I may actually be doing something right. Their unfulfilling relationships, say their therapists, are the result of not being "self-soothing." In other words they are erroneously dependent on their spouses to make them happy, rather than making their own happiness, finding it within themselves, and fulfilling their own needs. Well if that isn't something I'm a little TOO good at, eh? It's been a weird year, but I have to say, things have been pretty good in the love department lately. I would even go so far as to say (for the moment at least) I'm fulfilled. Possibly because I'm beginning to see that my future is an unwritten mystery, rather than a long predetermined chronology. Because I've discovered a new me inside of me, and lord knows what crazy thing she'll do next, despite herself. It's the sense of adventure, the thrill of not knowing, that I live for. There's still so much I don't know, and much is still left to learn that exists under my own roof. Including perhaps a few remaining mysteries of one person I've taken for granted.
Anyhow, I�m in a good mood because I have a famous friend who cares more about music than he does about cashmere. So check it: Said friend put me on the guest list for two shows of the best indie punk band of all time. This entitles me to free drinks with celebrities backstage, and after-parties in two cities. I can also bring a friend for free, simply because, I am made of fucking magic. Take that, Manolo Blahnik.
May you all be either Russian, or screwing one,
Zoela
9:59 p.m. - 2006-10-03