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Every day I bust out of the office at exactly 5 o’clock to come home to my 600-square-foot, overpriced apartment only to sit on the couch and do absolutely nothing. I immediately change into something way too big for me and take off my bra… ah, sweet freedom. From that point on, I’m switching between rewatching episodes of The Office for the millionth time, half-listening to my husband, and rotating between the same three apps on my iPhone.
As a young and married adult, I’m not cool enough to have Snapchat. I’m just not. I don’t understand it, and frankly, I would have nothing remotely interesting to “snap.” Twitter is lucky if I check it once a week. Facebook is wildly boring and my feed currently consists of BuzzFeed videos and political posts. And I barely post anything on Instagram anymore. But, you bet your sweet ass I’m judging the shit out of you on all three apps.
I’ve stopped following “Instagram models” because they were making me feel bad about myself and no one wants to buy your detox tea and teeth whitening device. However, that doesn’t stop a lot of my friends from desperately trying to get into that scene. I have three pretty good friends who I guarantee spend all of their free-time trying to get noticed by anyone who will pay them to post. It’s really an interesting concept. Simply put, more followers mean more people that will buy a certain product, especially if a beautiful young woman in front of an ivy-covered wall endorses it.
My “Instagram model hopeful” friends drive around all weekend looking for interesting spots to take pictures of themselves. They never pass up an opportunity to pose in front of a beautiful exposed brick wall, any type of graffiti, or a situation where confetti is involved. They drag their boyfriends and husbands along and make them take a million pictures of them twirling around on their iPhones. After the perfect shot, they spend hours editing and coming up with the ideal caption — not too long and not too short. Of course, serious hashtag consideration is a must.
But come on. Please know that we are all secretly screenshotting these posts and talking mad shit behind your backs. It’s not that we don’t love you, it’s that we are embarrassed for you and feel bad for your significant other. You are not a model. Yes, you are beautiful and know how to put together a fresh outfit. However, I feel as though you should be focusing on your children and not pretending to laugh at whatever is obviously hilarious just beyond the camera.
Maybe I’m jealous. Maybe I wish I had the time to wander around the city for an ice cream shop so I can pose with it while getting into a taxi. Perhaps I would love to buy $3,000 Louboutin heels so I could find a creative way to show off the red sole without being too in your face about it.
Whatever the reason is, I’m going to go down the street to get Chinese takeout. Hopefully, I will not be mistaken for a homeless person like I was last night. But judging by the way I look right now, the odds aren’t great because I look homeless AF. .
Image via Unsplash
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Fighting the urge to send this to my sister.
I have two stages of dress: middle management and “possibly homeless.” Gym shorts, tshirt with paint stains and maybe a hole in the armpit? Awesome. Throw on an oversize hoodie if it’s chilly. Bonus points for a ketchup or BBQ sauce stain somewhere. That’s how I roll.
I don’t remember how to dress other than these two modes.
I have possibly homeless and slightly less possibly homeless. The difference between the two being, with slightly less possibly homeless, I wear one item obviously more expensive than everything else on my person added together.
Good call. I like to pair a moderately priced wrist watch and/or shoes with an otherwise terrible outfit. “Look mom, that hobo is wearing Cole Haan driving loafers!”