Last week, my love Andrea blogged about someone she called the Unreal Woman. She wrote that, “To me, she is perfect, despite whatever flaws she might have that I’m not yet familiar with. She’s The Woman That I Intend to Become, when I grow up.”
Tell me that Andrea and I aren’t the only two ladies who have this fantasy.
When I think about the woman I want to be when I magically morph into a Full Grown Adult, I think of a million things. I still see her as a teacher, but as the sort whose lesson plans are typed, standards aligned and neatly confined to a binder nine weeks in advance, as opposed to hastily composed a few weeks before, and occasionally altered the morning of. Of course, the Unreal Woman is every kid’s favorite teacher, she never loses her temper and her classroom is all fun and games and joy, coupled with mind-blowing amounts of learning. When she teaches parallel structure, she doesn’t sound like a hopeless idiot, and her students retain the information, as opposed to staring at her like she’s criminally insane.
When she’s not neatly grading papers, the Unreal Woman is writing. And not the sort of writing I do, lazed on my couch in front of America’s Best Dance Crew, but at a desk, in a creatively decorated room that’s painted turquoise and manages to be whimsical but adorably organized. Of course, the Unreal Woman is paid to write — and is paid well. While she’s writing, she reaches for decaf tea instead of the coffee I tend to favor in large amounts. Unreal manages to code her own website perfectly, her content is never uninspired and she takes her own lovely photos to accompany it. Naturally.
Oh my, don’t even get me started on her wardrobe. I’m sure this will be unsurprising, but the Unreal Woman is thin and fit and looks glowy-tan without appearing to be off the Jersey Shore. The Unreal Woman is outfitted perfectly everyday in a style that looks like Anthropologie and Target are attending a tea party: cute, mature, perfectly suited without being too matchy or too stuffy. The Unreal Woman would never casually refer to her work style as “fancy hobo” and certainly would never pull clothing straight from the dryer, or worse—her floor.
Not that I do that.
And while her hair is curly still, because I’ve accepted that fact, it never looks as if she’s accidentally touched the toaster’s insides with a fork. Instead, it’s shiny, well-contained and downright perky. She never misses a spot with her product and certainly doesn’t resort to the messy “half up” look on the daily. Her mani-pedi never chips, and she certainly never gnaws on her fingernails when she’s stressed out. She manages to let her eyebrows grow out between waxes without looking like a wildebeast and her skin has nary a flaw. Everyone who knows her knows “her” scent because she smells delicious all the time.
My Unreal Woman never worries about the things she’s said or hasn’t said, nor about the things she’s done, because she’s always said and done the “right” thing. She doesn’t obsess over things being awkward or weird, because they just aren’t—and even if they were? She has enough confidence to let it roll off her back. Her laugh sounds attractive and playful—not like an asthmatic hyena, as one friend has likened my laugh to, when I’m really laughing. Unreal Woman is loved and adored by all — she is never unfriended or excluded, and again, if she was, she wouldn’t care. Because things like that do not phase this Unreal Woman. It’s not that she’s unsensitive — she just doesn’t ever cry at her desk or when driving home listening to Sia or when things seem to just not work out her way or because those stupid pet adoption commercials just aren’t fair.
The Unreal Woman never misses yoga, bakes on the weekends, has a savings account that is ridiculously large, reads 2-3 books a week, has a record player and record collection that is awesome sans the hipster douche factor, vacations in Paris, throws dinner parties that are legendary, adores NPR, can tear it up on the dance floor on Saturday without having Ugly Hangover on Sunday and can do the New York Times Sunday crossword without using derivatives of the f-word OR Google.
The best part about the Unreal Woman is that she manages to do and be all this, but without making you feel bad. She’s the sort of friend you know you can call because he hasn’t texted you or the friend who will SO go to hip hop class with you because you know that even though you’ll look ridiculous, you’ll have a good time. She’s the friend that never makes you feel bad, that always returns your calls, that sends you cards and mails you little gifts “just because.”
She is in short, the woman I wish to be, all the time. And my, my—striving towards this keeps me busy.
I doubt I’ll ever get there, but man…a girl can dream.
Who is YOUR Unreal Woman? What qualities do you wish you posessed and hope to…someday?
