While in Whole Foods this weekend, I watched the most perfect trophy wife with the most ridiculously gorgeous Tory Burch clothes, the most impeccable hair, and flawless makeup, walk into the parking garage with her three little baby-model kiddos and proceed to load her identical monogrammed tote bags into the trunk of her annoyingly perfect and beautiful car. It was simultaneously awe-inspiring and sickening. A little like watching a modern-day Jackie O with highlights in some never-before-seen Super 8 reel of her and her children.
(Edited to add: No, actually. No, it was much, much worse. Because at least with those Jackie O movies, you can somehow convince yourself that they were heavily edited by Jackie herself or some JFK political advisor or whoever, with some Camelot-era version of iMovie or something.)
I literally stopped dead in my tracks and stood there, mouth agape, marveling at this blonde, lithe superwoman, trying to figure out how exactly she distracted her baby from ripping out all the petals from her overpriced peonies (like mine was), and convinced that she had never in her life dropped a carton of overpriced organic strawberries on herself in public (the way I just had).
I couldn't tell if I wanted to be her . . . or to hate her. But probably, I just wanted to be bffs with her while borrowing all her clothes, telling each other secrets, running to the spa together, and then secretly hating her for her perfection. Hey, there were a lot of emotions running through me, okay? But then, something miraculous happened.
Covered in strawberry mash and a look of self-loathing, I watched as Ms. Stepford backed her flawless Volvo SUV right into a pole. . . and then, straight into another.
So, thank you, Universe. I really needed that one. It was much, much cheaper than all those years of therapy was probably going to cost me.