I wake up at 6:30 in the morning, every morning, without the aid of an alarm clock. My circadian rhythm is adjusted to the max, so I wake up naturally feeling awesome. Diane—she’s my neuroplastic consult—says that my suprachiasmatic nucleus is a thing of evolutionary splendor. (If you don’t know what a suprachiasmatic nucleus is, sorry/not sorry. Keep up. Wikipedia? Heard of it?) I shower (fifteen minutes) do my hair and make-up (twenty minutes) and by the time I’m ready, my live-in boyfriend Charlie has breakfast on the table. Charlie looks like a combination of Ryan Gosling, Ben Whishaw and a young Stephen Colbert. Having trouble imagining it? I’d attach a picture, but Charlie wouldn’t like it. He’s shy, which is amazing, considering the perfunctory washboard sexiness of his abs—abs that I stare at over a table of omelets and turkey bacon, because Charlie hates wearing a shirt in the morning. I love that about him. You would, too.
So. Seven-thirty, and I’m out the front door and onto the neat sidewalk of our up-and-coming little street in the neighborhood we’ve reclaimed from dingy bodegas and greasy spoons. I hail a cab for work, and one arrives within sixty seconds. It is so tiresome, the standing and waving, but I can’t abide public transit. Why would I? It’s filthy. I mean, of course I support it in theory, but at the age of twenty-six, I’ve grown disenchanted with the trust-fund-grungery of standing pit to pit with a million other sweaty strangers in poorly-tailored button-downs.
The day at work is long, but I excel, as always. I am the best and brightest in my office, of course. Maybe in the industry. What industry? Your Industry, of course — no, not the one you work in now. The one you desperately want to be in, the one whose minimum threshold of entry is higher than your stubby, chubby legs could leap to. Sure — I was hired right out of Your Top Choice College (the one you didn’t get into), streets ahead of my lazy millennial peers, yadayadayada. Nothing exciting, but of course, I deserved this. I had no connections, mind. I worked my size-two tush off to get this job, spent one year, fifty hours a week, unpaid, to get where I am. I had to settle for living in Brooklyn, and I’ll have you know, it wasn’t Park Slope. No, all I had were my stingy, budgeting parents in Maryland, my personal charm, and my winning, pearl-white, surgically-reconstructed smile. And my super-suprachiasmatic nucleus, of course.
Here’s my typical day: usually, it’s coffee with the girls, meeting, phone calls, business lunch at the gastropub that opened downstairs, last few meetings. Then I’m off to yoga to enhance the innate flexibility of my slender ballerina physique. After that is krav maga, where my natural toughness, resilience, power, intimidation, and wrought-through-struggle inner-strength come through. Then I peruse the farmer’s market, then sit for some light café reading, then enjoy a late dinner with my five best friends, and then, finally, I head to my improv class. I don’t mean to brag, but it is widely known that I am the funniest woman in the room—most likely the funniest person. My stories are short and punchy. I never stop to laugh at my own wit, though my schlubby, mouth-breathing classmates certainly wish I would, because when I do laugh—oh, to hear it! Sometimes I record it just to play it back to myself. I will not dance around the subject. My laugh is a bell in the silent air of a winter morning, clear and strong and beautiful and wanted.
Some people hate me. Lots of people hate me. Women especially—ugly women, unexceptional women, women with bad teeth and split ends, women who wear pleated pants. I will admit to a certain coldness towards those sorts of women, but that is preemptive protection against the unyielding persecution I am to bear at their gnarled, chapped hands.
You probably hate me right now. You are probably foaming at the mouth through clenched teeth, teeth yellowed and rotten from non-diet soda and cheap cigarettes. And I’m sorry for you. Genuinely, I am. I’m brilliant, successful, driven, humble, physically strong, delicate, poised, charming, graceful, funny, and an overall cross-section of the best that humanity has to offer in this modern era. The only thing that flourishes more than my love life is my career. There is a flawless harmony of my existence, and that makes you uncomfortable, and for that I pity you.
Diane—my neuroplastic consultant, recall—told me to watch my back for jealous imitators. She told me to arm myself. That’s why I take krav maga. A woman on the bus—this was back when I took the bus, and a perfect example of why I don’t anymore—eavesdropped on one very private phone conversation re: the lazy ungrateful nature of food stamp recipients, and this wench had the nerve to side-eye me and turn her drugstore bargain-bin lipstick-coated mouth down at the corners. I was threatened. I was scared. The woman was swarthy—Italian?—and it was not inconceivable that she had among her tens of siblings a gang connection of some sort.
I signed up for krav maga, but the trauma remained ever on my mind.
I discussed the issue late one night while I was in bed with Charlie, and he listened, thoughtfully, silently, in that endearing way he does. Usually I go to him to vent, and often will come up with the solutions to my dilemmas before they even cross his little brain. (I know they’d get there eventually, which is why I love him so, but beautiful Charlie’s unexceptional suprachiasmatic nucleus ensures that he is tired in the evening, which is when we usually discuss these matters, and thus not prepared to the weighty calculations of my very complex problems.)
My solution was — and Charlie agreed, and Diane, and Heidi, my nutritionist, and Mitchell, my spiritual-psychiatric financial consultant, they all agreed it was brilliant — to come out of the closet.
Women’s suffrage, civil rights, and most recently the movement for LGBT rights — all of those movements have shown examples of the great influence that a group of marginalized people can have when they advocate for their dignity publicly. I propose a similar movement for those who have approached my level of greatness with appreciable proximity: we need to come out.
Gone are the days when we allow lesser people to undercut our flawless nature. The stupid, the ignorant, the failures, the ugly. They press upon our soul with their anger and their sheer number. Never in the course of human history has there been a group so reviled as mine: we, the lucky, the shining, are forced to hide our flawless, exceptional natures! In the era of the narcissism of the unworthy, we hide in the shadows of a great swell of dull, odorous, unpleasant individuals believing that their opinions and experiences are as valid as our own.
Rise, brothers! Rise, sisters! Let fall your hair from its ponytail and sock bun; let glimmer your pearl-white smiles; let ride your Porsche, your Lexus, your Lamborghini, from the prison cell of the heated parking garage. Let the sheer force of your intellect and personality tumble the walls of “fairness,” and “decency.”
Now is the age for the long-oppressed privileged to rise. Take up your $74.95 REI shovel and $450.00 Major League-signed baseball bats and fight the plebian scum who stand in your way!
Viva la revolucion!