This morning after dropping Jake off to have some tests the kids and I were driving home through downtime when out of nowhere a little red BMW with a license plate that read SEXY cut in front of me. A pretty girl with long blond hair was driving, she looked to be about 25.
I was instantly jealous.
And I'm no slouch, really. My hair is the same, I drive a sportscar, mine is black. People check me out on the road, too.
So the differences? Well, I don't drive like a maniac, right now I only drive when I absolutely must, thanks to the pills. She drove like she had a deathwish. The booster seats holding precious cargo in my backseat keep me grounded and obeying traffic signals and speed limits.
The differences were probably ones I couldn't even see, if you'll excuse the snap judgements. I bet she's six feet tall, carries a spendy handbag, shops often for the latest styles. She sleeps around a little, not a lot, and probably goes to parties every weekend. She has rich parents or a sugar daddy (probably the latter with that plate on the car) and doesn't have doubts about who she is, what she means to the rest of the world or where her place is in life.
Me? Eh, you know. Troll-size Bridget with her small but mighty rotating dress collection, loyal til the bitter end, hasn't been invited to a party in years, budgeting every last dollar and positively brimming with destructive thoughts twenty four seven.
Thinking back to when I was 25 it wasn't much different, except I had even less money and was still surprisingly short, though I did have a heck of a lot of fun every weekend.
There was one thing I did have over her, but she'll never know it.
I don't need to impress anyone.
Seriously. A licence plate that says SEXY? What are you trying to prove? And who really cares?
It's official. I really am 35 and showing every day of it.
