Dear Girl Making Me Look Bad:

Every childhood fantasy of what a grown-up version of myself might look like saw me being perfectly coiffed, slender-but-not-thin, graceful, intelligent, social, popular, delightful at casual conversation, perpetually mani-pedied, with makeup blended to near perfection.

My whole life I have aspired to become like you.

Instead, I am the Jan Brady to your Marcia.

My skin persists in glowing (not in the good way), my nails always chip at the least opportune time, and I think of a witty retort long after the conversation has ended and everyone has gone home. I somehow manage to be awkward and clumsy in every situation, my affairs are rarely in perfect order, and there is no way on this earth I can fit everything I’ll need for a night on the town into that teeny-tiny purse.

Marcia, Marcia, Marcia.
How do you do it? Tell me your secret.

Did you make a deal with the Devil, or did God cut you from a special mold that He destroyed immediately after creating you? How have you managed to glide through life relatively unscathed, while I am still wincing from the last cruel hand it dealt me?

I will continue to silently sip my vodka lemonade as you effortlessly charm the man I swore I was making a connection with, who is now transfixed by your expertly-applied smokey eye, your sillage of Gucci Envy Me, and the graceful sway of your hips as you slink away on your legs that seem to go on for all eternity; all memory of our previous and once engaging conversation now replaced by your phone number and the promise of you.
Marcia: 1, Jan: 0.