Rich People vs. Me

Almost two weeks ago, back when I did have a job, I bussed to Montreal with a few of my friends to visit my boyfriend and his mansion. I think it's kind of ironic that his family is so wealthy and mine is the very opposite. I stepped into his home with caution, everything seemed to delicate. I was so envious of his lifestyle, although I tried to act as non-chalant about it as possible. On Sunday his family was having a little get-together for my boyfriends older brother's birthday. His whole family was there, and I could not feel more intimidated. I tried to dress as semi-formal as I could however everyone else's outfit seemed to top mine. I guess you can't fake dressing rich. I tried to look respectable, at least I accomplished that much. Anyways, we sat down at a long table to eat lunch. I was so amused by the typical rich-person chandalier that hung above the typical rich-person dinner table. I glanced around trying to look like impressed, but not too impressed. The family debated about taxes, private schools, education, politics, money, etc. All in French. I was constantly asking my boyfriend to translate the conversation for me so that I didn't feel totally useless to the conversation. I stayed attentive, even though I had no idea what they were talking about. I don't understand or speak French well. It's always been something I've wanted to learn, but never got around to doing.

Being around these people just inspired me to want to be extremely succesful. My dream is to have a big fancy blue house with white shutters and a white picket fence, with a little white mailbox, a small dog that I can carry around in a purse, and a pool. I want my kids to go to all girls or all boys private school where they have to wear uniforms, and get a really high quality education. I want to go to work every day dressed in heels and a pencil skirt and come home to a husband who brings home the same amount of money as I do for our perfect little family in our perfect house.

I sat on the germ-infested, cold bus waiting to be home. My head rest smelt like dirty, sweaty socks. I plugged my headphones in to block out the chatter coming from the stragglers that sat behind me. When I finally got back to my city, I had to sit on another bus to get home. This one wasn't nearly as bad, smelt way better that's for sure. As I walked up to my small town-house, I stopped and stood in the driveway and just looked at it for a moment. I sighed heavily, then headed inside. I opened my fridge and pulled out a tupperware that was previously meant to hold margarine, but was re-used to hold leftover spaghetti. I ripped open the lid in frustration, and slid it into the microwave. I set it for one minute, then pressed start. But it was broken.

I can imagine the look on my face when I discovered I couldn't even heat up my leftovers; disgusted crossed with unimpressed.

That was the end of my night.