Now I’m not a trust-fund baby (F*CK, I WISH!), I don’t make a heaps of money, and I pay Manhattan rent. If I lived anywhere else in the world, I might be doing sort of OK, financially — but I live in NEW YORK CITY.
However, this article isn’t about New York City. This article isn’t even really about money. It’s about living a glamorous, fabulous, glittering, lifestyle and being made to feel ashamed about it.
I didn’t realize the magnitude of my lavish lifestyle until very recently. I can’t help it. I was born glamorous. You can totally hate me for this if you want to, by the way. I’ve been in therapy for a while now, and I don’t need everyone’s approval all the time anymore. And luckily, I have a few glam friends who get it:
But, boys and girls, tell me, is there really a need to shame me and my luxurious friends for being glam? I mean, half of the girls I know in New York City who dutifully take the subway and sport beat up converse are way richer and more spoiled than I am. Their “ripped” jeans aren’t ripped because they’re worn down — they’re actually Rag & Bone distressed denim that retail for $450.
They might live in dirty Brooklyn lofts, but those “run down” warehouse spaces cost twice as much as my pretty little Upper East Side shoe box.
Look, I get it: Being glamorous is not cool. Being unglamorous is “en vogue” right now. It’s hip to look dirty and hit the dive bars even when you have a trust fund.
But does that mean I really should be incessantly subjected to dirty looks, bitchy eye-rolls and back-handed compliments about how “overdressed” I am? Why can’t everyone just LET ME LIVE?
I’m not asking you to finance my lavish lifestyle, so who the f*ck cares if I spend $52 on Tom Ford lipstick? I’m single. I don’t have children. I, by the way, you smug little trolls, low-key do a sh*t ton of community service (Most of my jobs have been non-profit).
And most importantly, I can strut around the city in my 6.5-inch mega platforms faster than you can in your ugly ass “flats.”
Think I’m lying?Try me bitches. Try me, but stop shaming me. I’m a 29-year-old woman trying to survive in the cruel, cold world like everyone else.
Don’t Uber-shame me.
The other day, I was with my friend Sam (who is totally low-key bougie but in total denial).
“I’m not taking the subway home,” I declared. She had convinced me to get high as a f*cking kite with her on a downtown rooftop, and I don’t usually smoke. There was no way I could face the subway stoned — not that I ever take the subway anyway (but at least I had a good excuse for ONCE).
As I picked up my pink glitter iPhone 6 Plus and pressed my nail-polished finger on the comforting “Uber app,” she gave me a judgmental stare down, sending shards of shame down my spine.
“Zara, we are right by the train, AND there is a 2.5x surge price. Don’t Uber — that’s f*cking ridiculous! You’re ridiculous!” She cried, dramatically puffing on her perfectly rolled joint.
“F*ck off. I’m taking Uber, you bitch,” I smugly replied, pressing down extra hard on the “confirm your trip” tab for dramatic effect.
“Fine” she said, exasperated, staring out into the starless New York City sky.
My text message made the little ding sound. I checked; it was the Uber driver informing me hewas outside. As I went to reply “coming outside,” I realized I had a long text HISTORY with saidUber driver.