Another Kind of Woman

You've seen her. She isn't quite like you. Maybe she has a perm and an electric tan. She wears a short skirt with a designer label that doesn't look quite right on her, but she wears it because it's short and has the designer label. Her shirt is a little tight. She has nice legs and looks generally good, though maybe just a tad thick around the middle. Her eyeliner is thicker. She likes jewelry and wears several chains around her neck and on her wrists. She doesn't really have flair or fashion sense, but you think, neither do you. Still, didn't you wear outfits like that in the eighties? The black pantyhose and black heels with the short skirt. That color lipstick. You know the men will like it though.

You wonder how she sees you. She's at least your age, maybe older, but you really can't tell, because she's been tanning for a while. Does she see you as the plain, overweight housewife in last year's fleece vest? Is she glad she's not like you? She has at least one kid at home, she says. But she's not the same kind of mother you are. At least not here. Not now. But you're not like her. Not now. Not ever. But you're really not that far apart in a lot of ways. Age. Motherhood. Wanting them to notice you.

She's really nice, very polite, seems like fun in the few minutes you get to spend. You feel bad for the word "trashy" floating through your head a couple times or thinking she's a blue-collar queen. There are lots of those in this town of former steel workers. Why do you think you're any better? Maybe you're smarter and know more about the world in general, but does that make you a better person? Life isn't all about smart or social awareness. Being a nice person can be enough, you know.

Maybe it's that you think men might find her more attractive than you. Maybe it's because you didn't expect her to be accompanying your guest. Maybe you wonder if that's the kind of woman your husband wishes you were. He always said he wishes you'd get a perm, and he likes you tan too. He was born and raised in this town. Steel put food on his table, and his father's table, and probably even his grandfather's table too. He went to school with the type of girl this woman used to be. You don't have a chance to ask what he thinks. He has to go out for the night with his high school friend and this woman. You wish you got a sitter.

It's not really that you feel intimidated. Maybe a little. You see the muscles in her arms, and she talked about going to the gym. Did she say that in passing or on purpose? Her thighs don't rub together like yours do, but you wouldn't trade her shape for yours. If you weighed this much with her shape, you'd look like you weigh as much as you do. No one guesses your weight right. Even though the men might like her, they want to marry you. You think you're just as pretty, in a different way. If you tried, you could probably still pick someone up tonight. If you could even go, that is.

You were already a little jealous that he was going out with his high school buddy without you. He planned a big night of fun. He didn't even ask if you wanted to go and didn't try to make plans for a sitter. You felt left out. Now here she is, kind of taking your place in a completely illogical sense. You wanted to be the one going out on this fun night with the guys. But you weren't the kind of girl they hung out with in high school. She is. She's going. You aren't.

You sometimes wonder why he picked you, the redhead Nebraska farm girl who never liked hair metal at all. You vowed never to get a perm again after your only one, a disaster that left your hair a frizzy mess before you had babies. Before you met him. He sees pictures and says he likes it. You recently told him you weren't tanning anymore for fear of premature aging. He says you look good tan. He kind of liked it when you went through your fake nail stint. He loved it when you bleached your hair, but you hated the upkeep and didn't really like being blonde anyway. He likes the clothes you think are trashy. He likes your hair right after you blow it dry, even though you haven't brushed it yet. He thinks Cameron Diaz's messy Oscar hairstyle looked good. His teenage fantasy was any girl in a hair metal video. You made fun of those girls. From everything he's said about his taste, you aren't it, but he wanted you anyway. You consider maybe he just went too long without having sex before he met you. And you seem to remember hair metal girls being in short supply back in Nebraska where you met.

You question your worth to him. You question your worth at all. She brought those questions with her. Her and her perm and her skirt and her chains. It wasn't those questions weren't there though. You realize it's not her fault at all. It's you. It's inside you. It's the same questions you ask all the time, but you try to think you don't. You know you're just a different person than she is. She won't be you. You won't be her. You're probably both quite happy with that fact, and no one's the better for it. And you realize one more thing�

...you like who you are.