By Hanna Moss
THAT CHICK I WANT TO [BUT PROBABLY NEVER WILL] BE
You know who you are. You’re the girl I’ve always wanted to be, always tried to be, pretend to be, declare I am, but in all honesty I can never get quite right.
I’ve always wanted to be that chick that religiously only shops in Whole Foods with her recycled bags, only buys organic and grinds her own almonds to make almond butter.
I’ve always wanted to be that chick that shops at the farmers market with her two kids and oversized straw hat letting her calm kids taste all the fresh produce while happily teaching them about farmers, land, crop, trees and how buying fresh produce is so important.
I’ve always wanted to be that chick that shows up to the park with her excited kids running to the playground, manages to calmly and happily produce a blanket, sand toys, bikes, sun screen, sandwiches, snacks, water bottles, change of clothes, a diaper bag and a newborn baby which she straps into her Baby Bjorn so she can play tag with her kids.
I’ve always wanted to be that chick that regularly practices yoga and truly appreciates the inhales, the exhales, the Namastes, the calmness of breath and becoming one with your thoughts and mind.
I’ve always wanted to be that chick that orders a green tea at starbucks.
I’ve always wanted to be the chick that is just as engrossed in Mommy 'n Me as her 15 month old is.
I’ve always wanted to be that chick that appreciates fine art and literature.
I’ve always wanted to the be that chick that has a standing bi-monthly appointments with her manicurist that she has on speed dial and religiously gets the same pinky-nude color she’s been getting for the past 15 years.
I’ve always wanted to be that chick that makes family dinners every night, and serves it promptly at six.
I’ve always wanted to be that chick that manages to have a coupon for everything she buys at the grocery and saves $50 just by collecting coupons from that Sunday’s paper.
I’ve always wanted to be that chick that reads the Sunday Paper.
I’ve always wanted to be that chick that reads Vanity Fair.
I’ve always wanted to be that chick that knew politics.
I’ve always wanted to be that chick that understood the stock market.
I’ve always wanted to be the woman on the plane, impeccably dressed in her skinny jeans, white blouse, cashmere J-Crew cardigan, ballet flats, hair in neat bun, wearing small hoops, carrying a small Fiji water bottle, and wearing only minimal makeup...yet looking so beautiful.
I’m sitting across from her.
She smiles at me. She’s sitting in first class. She looks like she does yoga regularly. She looks like she shops in Whole Foods. Her nails are pinky-nude, and her assistant just showed up bringing her a green tea from starbucks.
I’m looking at this woman. I’m in a sweatshirt and uggs. I’m wearing sunglasses in an airport, trying to look mysterious. My nails are half red and chipped, and the other hand is blue thanks to a manicure by my three year old. I’m the girl that wears urban outfitters geek sunglasses to Whole Foods trying to look the part with my recycled shopping bags and ends up leaving buying a fedora and new Tom’s shoes. I buy organic when I happen to be dressed up and want to pretend I’m rich. I do yoga cuz I got a good deal on Groupon. I show up at the park with my two kids and pat myself on the back for actually having the energy to do so. I sit down, breathe and then my baby has a poop diaper - and I forgot wipes.
I pretend I love the beach because I want to be a beach girl...but I really hate sand in my car. I like loud pop music and go to the library frequently (sporting my Urban Outfitters geek sunglasses, of course) to try and find fine literature, but I end up leaving with Nora Roberts. I get iced Americanos at Starbucks - the biggest one they have - with an extra shot. I like to leave shaking from the caffeine. I take 20 minutes picking out my color at the manicure place and I end up choosing the loudest brightest color there, only to bite it off the next day. I can barely make it through the Sunday paper if it doesn’t have big flashing pictures. I need a dictionary to understand Vanity Fair. And yes, I’m that chick on the plane that always has the two screaming kids that you prayed to the G-d above with all your heart wouldn't have the seat next to you.
I think about our differences lying awake at 3 am. You’re undoubtedly sleeping in silk pajamas in your 1000 thread count Egyptian cotton bedding. I’m in bed with my three year old's foot smashed across my face. And I think she just wet the bed.