You know the one – she’s always perfectly put together, with nary a hair out of place, a pimple on her face or bruises on her legs. She has the perfect outfits, in all the latest colours, but not too trendy at all. She carries her tote bag with ease and looks like she’d fit into the most chi-chi country club or bar around.
Me? I’m more the girl who looks like she overslept, who’s lugging around a bag stuffed to the top, who’s likely to have bruises on her legs (from where she drops dumbells most often).
9 times out of 10, I’m okay with that. I refuse to wear heels everyday – my feet would hate me. I don’t have the patience to straighten my hair or the money/desire to buy those “classic” pieces that cost the earth and make me look like everyone else. I know that.
But sometimes I look at the girl on my bus and I get a twinge of jealousy. She always looks perfect and classy and I feel like such a schlump next to her, even though I’ve got my makeup on and my nice clothes and I know I’ve put in some effort. I feel like hiding from her sometimes, which never works because, well, she works in the same building so if we’re on the bus together, we’re together for the whole ride.
And I know that outward appearances mean nothing and that I shouldn’t be comparing myself to anyone, much less her. I know that the pimple that’s threatening to appear on my lip is not a sign that I’m a slob. I know that my feet love me for not wearing heels everyday and that my bag is overflowing because I’m going to the gym later and not because I’m disorganised.
But sometimes I still get a touch of the green monster and I feel lower for it. And I hate it.