I’ve always been the shy kind. Never really had many friends, or ambitions. I was a fly on the black walls of gloom, happy to blend in, and stay invisible. I was good at that, you know? Like being invisible was something I was born to do.
I went to college because my family wanted a lawyer in the family. If there’s one thing I’ve always openly detested, it was the thorough discussion of torts, and laws and commandments and what not. You’d think you’d be the Elle Woods of your college, but you end up being Epic Fail, and that was pretty much me.
When this guy from my class asked me out, it was kind of shocking.
You see, I’m no beauty. Actually, I’m pretty far from it. I was here for the sole purpose of the degree, never wanted to practice. My aspirations in life were – a, to find a loving husband and have kids, or b, to adopt a puppy with said loving husband. I wanted to be the invisible homemaker. I guess that’s what I’m comfortable doing – disappearing. And that’s exactly why, perhaps, he asked me out. He had it all going for him – the cars, the looks of old Hollywood movie stars, he had bling and he had everything.
He invited me over to a housewarming party one weekend.
The panic that followed was insane. My roommate helped me find a dress. By find, I mean, we hit up Rebecca and asked to borrow one of her many, many PR-package dresses. The perks of having a fashion blogger friend, my darlings, are limitless. I got ready, did my makeup real nice and prayed to the Lord that the boob tape would hold up. I don’t know HOW Kimberly Kardashian West does it. I don’t.
He sent a limo to the dorm. A LIMO.
When I arrived, shock hit me with the force of a speeding train. It was a sprawling mansion, with a pool, way too big for even a hundred people to live in. My legs trembled as I walked in. I remember feeling super out of place. Trophies and paintings. I saw a couple Monets. A good number people were invited and they all looked so expensive, it made me feel like it was almost indecent to see so much diamond on a woman. I looked distinctly shabby, in my Zaful dress, when these women were talking to each other about the new jet their husbands had recently acquired, or the fifty billion carat diamond rings that their fiancés gifted them.
I felt a sharp poke in my back. It was him and he dragged me into a walk in closet in his mother’s room. And demanded I change into at least a Giambattista Valli. That my pretty face needed a pretty dress, or people would think his new squeeze wasn’t being pampered enough.
That’s when I realized: I was a puppet in his ostentatious world and nothing would bring him more joy than to fix me. Rich people, I cannot stress enough, have weird whimsies.
To be continued.