I am afraid of the other preschool mommies.
When I drop off/pick up Little Prince, they're always clumped together, chatting and laughing and looking utterly carefee urban-chic. I've never seen Desperate Housewives, but I'd imagine these ladies would be the Brazilian version. They wear HEELS, people. Like, on a daily basis. Pointy-toed ones. With tailored pants that just scream "dry-clean only." I think I own ONE dry-clean only dress. And I refuse to confess to the cyber-world when the last time I actually had it cleaned. Or wore it, for that matter.
They lean against their shiny SUVs and gossip about their manicurists and how "it's been weeks since I've had my highlights retouched, dahling." My slightly orangey-brown-y Zafira (closest thing here to a mini-van) is actually silver, but no one would ever guess that. And when I'm REALLY making an effort to look nice, I run a brush through my hair before I get in the car. And maybe take a washcloth to the spit-up stains on my shirt.
There's actually one mommy there who doesn't do the tailored-pants-and-matching-accessories-thing. No, no. She wears exercise clothes. Like, real ones. Not just the bleach-splashed-sweat-pants-and-BYU-alumni-shirt that I got goin' on. She gots the spandex leggings in every color with coordinating top. And several pairs of running shoes. And the shoelaces aren't even dirty.
I don't know how she does it, but she totally pulls it off. The woman doesn't have single ripple or ridge on her body. Believe me, I know. Leotards communicate. Let's just say that when I'm around her, I feel extremely lumpy.
What kills me is she's dressed to sweat EVERY TIME I SEE HER - although never actually sweating. When I drop off. When I pick up. At parent meetings. It's incredible. Either this woman exercises 24/7 or she owns a gym. I wouldn't know, since I'm too embarrassed to actually talk to her.
I am closer to 30 than 20. I have a husband. Three kids. I'm pretty darn established. But when I'm around these women, all of a sudden I'm 12 years old again, the gangly geeky kid blending into the wall reading a book. And they are the sophisticated 'popular ones,' breezing through life with nary a care.
[Okay, okay. I'm mature enough to not be jealous. I'm not. Really. I don't want to be them at all. I'm perfectly content with my life, although not my body. Be that as it may, I'll still never work up the guts to have a conversation with them.]