The Office Curve

You're talking to ME? (Edited)

So, here's the deal.  You know that girl who seems to have it all?  The girl who always dressing with the trends, always has her hair and make-up on point, and looks like she just stepped off the catwalks of Paris and Milan? The girl who always has the pick of the litter when it comes to potential boyfriends, always considering whether to date the underwear model, the bad boy on the bike, the cocky yuppie, the not-so-cocky yuppie, or the super rich yuppie that makes the other two yuppies look like hobos?  The girl that is just destined to make you feel like the shit on her shoe and that you should run, not walk to the nearest cliff and jump off, hoping you get to do a half twist into a flip before making impact?

Yeah, don't worry, I'm not that girl.

I'm not even remotely close that girl.  You'll never see me walking those catwalks because I could never fit into those clothes - hell, I don't think they fit the circumference of my wrist, let alone the curves of my body.  Don't get me wrong - I've got a respectable wardrobe that helps me to feel amazing everyday, I have a bit of a shoe obsession, and while I'm no make-up maven, my small collection of essentials is respectable.  I'm sure that if the underwear model, the bad boy on the bike, and all those yuppies got to know me, they'd be lusting after me the same way they lust after the girl that has it all.

But that will never happen, because no one ever lusts after big girl who has just enough.  Only the skinny girl who has it all is the one lusted after.  Oh sure, we can look like a curvaceous goddess that would have brought the Greek gods to their knees, but in the end, it just seems like we'll always be the ones who prefer jumping off of cliffs rather than choosing to be the shit under a pretty girl's shoe.

Or will we...?

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Another year, another sorry birthday.  Yay - happy birthday to me.

Not.

There is nothing happy about this birthday.  How can you be happy when you've aged by one year?  That just means you're one step closer to death.  And while people would argue that I'm young, I have a long life to live, blah, blah, blah, it means nothing to me.  When you're single and plus-size and you're surrounded by older people either telling you you're due for a stroke at any moment and young, skinny bitches snapping up all the hotties and the losers that just happen to be amazingly attractive, as shallow as this sounds, you aren't exactly inclined to feel positive about your life.

Okay, maybe I'm laying it on too thick, but what can I say?  I'm not thrilled about birthdays.

The fact that my bestie Rachael scored us VIP tickets to the Club Lush Black Ball - one of the hardest events to score tickets for in one of the most exclusive clubs in the city - couldn't cheer me up either.  While a part of me enjoyed the idea of hobnobbing with the beautiful people while those of my stature shivered out in the cold, I soon realized that while I might have gotten past the velvet rope, at the end of the night, I'd still be rejected, just much warmer.

This sucks.

"Seriously, Zara, you're just going to mope and get drunk on your birthday?"  Rachael asked, disgusted with my negative behavior.  I didn't blame her a bit, but I couldn't be bothered to adjust things.  "We are here in this amazing club surrounded by beautiful men, drinking the most delicious rose martinis and looking so damn hot, we might be scouted by model hunters.  Why the hell do you look like your dog died but you don't even have a dog?"

"Ugh, I don't know, Rach."  I took a long, drawn out sip of my martini - she's not kidding, it's really good.  "I'm just not feelin' the birthday thing.  I mean, what am I supposed to be celebrating anyway?  That I work in a place full of beautiful women, or that it focuses on weddings and reminds me of how single I am, or the fact that it pays the bills and then some at the cost of my soul."