My Fictional Ode To Girls Who Get Everything

Pairs well with Glad All Over, by the Dave Clark Five

I hate you. I’ve always hated your hair but I hate you, too. I hate your luck. The ease with which things come to you. I hate your resting happy face. I hate how people come up to you and say hi all the time. Someone is always striking up a conversation with you. I sit alone in coffee shops and on barstools wondering why people call me “intimidating.”

I hate your brain, because it doesn’t need antidepressants. I hate your liver, which has seen a missile silo-less red wine than mine has. I hate your clothes, the fact that they’re all magically one-of-a-kind vintage pieces that fit you perfectly without tailoring and that you just found, oh you know, wherever. I shrunk three Zara tee shirts in the dryer today and cried.

You wear a lot of jewelry and you never lose it. Not even the midi rings for fucks sake. I hate that you find Mid-century modern furniture in perfect condition on the side of the road. I hate that you always let your phone die but someone has a charger for you, every time. I hate that you always find a cool apartment exactly when you need one.

But mostly, I hate that three days after you ended a four year relationship, you met your husband.

You met your husband on the goddamn subway. You locked eyes as if you were in a perfume commercial and then he actually crossed an entire subway car to come and talk to you. The only people who cross subway cars to talk to me are asking for money or handing out free pacifiers. You talked for so long on the goddamn subway that you ended up in Coney Island. Which, as luck would have it was absolutely the perfect spot for a first date. The weather was gorgeous.

Oh of course he won you a stuffed animal. Like we’re living in the early 50s drinking malteds and saving ourselves for marriage. I hate that stuffed animal. You still have it. It’s under your bed in a box and you don’t even leave it out to remind yourself every day how lucky you are to be you.

I’ve been on 213 first dates. I’ve met 213 strangers and not one of them was my husband. Not one of them was even a boyfriend. You broke up with a man because, though he was a great guy of course you ridiculous human, he never wanted to get married. And of course because your life is fair, he never did. And then after feeling lonely for three days (2.63 days if we’re being literal), you met the man that would keep you company forever. Even if I’ve only felt lonely half the time I’ve been single, I’ve felt lonely for 1,463 days. I hate that when you read this paragraph you’ll think, “aren’t we supposed to be talking about me?”

I hate your parents. I hate that they loved him the second they met him. I hate that you’ve never had one fight with them about him. I hate that your dad was calling him “son” before dessert. I hate that your mom and his mom became best friends the second they met and your families love spending every holiday together so you never have to decide whose family you’ll celebrate with this year and you live a life of guilt-free bliss.

I hate your split rent, and the perfect furnishings you afforded with all that saved cash. I bet you didn’t even hire an interior designer, you just had a sense for where everything should go. I hate the dinner parties you throw with jazz playing in the background and not one drop of anything spilling on your maxi dress as you prepare food. I hate the Christmas cards you send and the fact that your dog is always looking directly at the camera. I hate that people laugh at your jokes, and value your opinions on world affairs.

I hate that it just happens to you, life. The goodness other people fight for years at a time simply greets you like a sunrise when you wake, without a hangover and perfectly rested, of course. I hate that you’ve never wasted effort. Every time you put on an outfit and makeup it matters. I hate that you really are as happy as you seem to be. I hate that we’re not so different, you and I, except that you were given everything I keep trying to earn.

So here’s your stamped and addressed RSVP card that’ll make its way back to your Prospect Heights brownstone with outdoor space in two business days. I hope my response suffices to communicate my intentions when it comes to your wedding. I hope you wake up every day for the rest of your life and look to your left because I know you got the good side of the bed and you see him and remember how lucky you are to have been standing in that spot on that subway car on that day at that exact time and that for some reason you looked up from your phone where you were beating me at Words With Friends instead of continuing to stare down thereby missing one of the greatest opportunities in your life. I hope you remember that your current situation was as easy as plucking a starlight mint out of a barrel of starlight mints, and instead of trying to find a needle in a haystack, I’m trying to find a needle in Nebraska. I hate the effortless nature of your entire life. You didn’t even have to alter that dress, did you? I hate your Swedish cheekbones. I hate that you’re good at math. I will not be attending your wedding in Coney Island.