I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.

I’m laying in bed, on my fifth or sixth episode of Sex and The City, I’ve lost count.  Whenever I type, Carrie Bradshaw’s voice is ringing in my words.  Now that Gossip Girl is over (may she rest in peace) I’ve gone back a decade at least and I am obsessing over Manhattan’s other It girls.  Think back to the days when Blair Waldorf and Serena Van der Woodson would have been walking the halls of some middle school.  Streets away Samantha Jones was doing what she does best -men.  Charlotte York was gracefully floating down Park Ave to her gallery.  Miranda Hobbes was being successful and awkward.  Carrie was writing the perfect thing on that 1999 Mac, confusing women more than ever before.  I conquered The Hills, a more recent throw back, during my January Break as well as Lipstick Jungle, a forgotten short lived urban fashion flick.  I get attached to whatever I can find on Netflix or through the iTunes store and live through it.  These powerful sexy elite women had fun and ambition.  They grabbed life by the balls (-thats for you Samantha) and lived it, meanwhile I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.

I sent my mom a text this morning with goals.  It consisted of “losing twenty pounds, find some decent new friends (since all of my old ones must have gotten hit by busses, the only explanation for why they haven’t been in touch), getting a pug, moving out, buying a Coach multi-purpose tote (Random pregnant Bitch bought the last one to use as a diaper bag on Sunday -the nerve), and become Carrie Bradshaw.” She told me some of those would be difficult, and that one was impossible.  

Obviously, I replied saying I knew 20 pounds was pushing it.

I can’t have these women’s lives, but I can covet the delusional perfection that Hollywood planted on my computer screen.  I can drool over Manolo Blahniks and cry over one night stands on their behalf.. because God knows I’m getting neither.  I can avoid reality for the next 75 days with my BVFF (best virtual friends forever).  I saw my first pair of Christian Louboutons on the feet of an adjunct professor at Community College today during my Bowling class today.  The 500 dollar shoes (minimum) looked out of place in the same mile radius as my ugly rubber color blocked bowling shoes.  I wondered if they’d look out of place near or on me regardless though.

I told myself in high school that my first salaried pay check would be dedicated to black glossy red soled pumps.  I still think I’d live on Raman Noodles for a month before letting those babies sit on a shelf, once I had a real career.  I’m not concerned that it won’t happen.

I’m concerned that I can’t even picture what I’ll be doing to expand my shoe collection.


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