The Dream Life
What is your dream job? I get asked that question a lot. I don’t think I have a dream job. Well, I know I want to be paid handsomely for doing as little as possible. In reality, I think I have a dream life not a dream job. If that makes any sense at all.
It sure doesn’t to my mother. My worked-to-the-bone mother. She wants me to waste away my entire existence for minimum wage like she did, getting the minimum enjoyment out of my youth. I, on the other hand, would love nothing more than to be clothed in silk, lounging on a soft sectional sofa, eating farmers market berries from a hand-painted porcelain bowl as I dive into a good book. (As a bonafide hot girl, I can say without a doubt that I have way too many books I have yet to read.)
I’m not devoted to religion but I’ve skimmed the bible far enough to know that it says nothing (absolutely nothing) about gorgeous girls in their prime slaving away behind a desk in a god-awful cubicle. The thought alone is enough to turn all the women I know into sluts—sexy ladies under tremendous stress, that is.
When I think of a dream life, I think of poolside palapas and microscopic Balmain bikinis. Fresh-baked croissants and almond milk lattes. Wearing archive Alexander McQueen in the sun-soaked kitchen of my tasteful home while Victoria Monét spins on my record player. Spiced pineapple on platters and mimosas in the afternoon. Sky-high Saint Laurent heels and a gown that scrapes the sidewalk as I saunter into an exclusive soirée on the Upper East Side. Diamonds, chemical peels, haute couture, private jets to Tuscany. You know, the simple things.
I’m an effervescent girl, but I have a sickness: it’s called the feminine urge to look pretty, be rich, and bask in the fruitfulness of my youth.
There aren’t too many things I won’t tolerate—I prefer to take life slowly and openly and show gratitude for every moment—but I think I might die if one more polyester . . .