We can't all be Barbie, or I Dream of Jeanie or Britney Spears or God only knows who... and who would want to be anyway?
I may not be made for the movies, but I am real. Can you say that of yourself? I refuse to apologize for my measurements or the fact that when I wake up my hair has a life of its own. I'm not the girl next door and the day my house looks like a picture out of Better Home & Garden is the day this world ends.
My make-up runs in the heat of the day and I cry when I'm not supposed to and I trip over my own bedsheets and bang my knee on my dresser. I burn toast and boil water dry when I'm making tea. I kick things and break dishes and look at my chest in the mirror and wonder what the hell happened to me in the past 10 years.
I am not that girl that you saw last Saturday night, red leather pants and tight black lace top. I'm probably the one you passed by, sitting near the window at Barnes and Noble, cup of chai in one hand, obscure discount book in the other.
But I did notice you, just as I notice the way each drop of rain takes a different path down the window. Without meaning to I mentally file you away with the rest of your pack, hungry and agressive, uninteresting and uninformed.
I'll not apologize for myself, and I wonder if ever there will be someone to apologize for you.