The woman I’m never going to be always has her nails done. She’s never ripped an entire cuticle off while sitting in the Dallas Fort Worth airport due to lack of sleep and anxiety. She’s one of those people who can pull off nail art, who never snags the sides on her pants with the rough edges. She’s never been caught with a chip in her manicure—and she’s definitely never pulled a full set of gel nails off of herself because she was bored.
The woman I’m never going to be decorates for holidays in a way that somehow comes across as effortless while simultaneously induces a serious case of the “feeling very inadequate” emotions into the hearts of bystanders. She always has a Christmas tree. It’s real. It somehow doesn’t shed needles into the carpet. She’s never left a pumpkin out too long after Halloween and watched it wither and rot and shrink. She offers you a seasonal cocktail at the door of her perfectly styled apartment, not just whatever she happens to have on hand as she shoves the laundry behind the bathroom door.
The woman I’m never going to be knows how to style her hair into those Lauren Conrad beach waves. It never looks greasy. Her undercut is always trimmed and never feels like a Chia Pet who was neglected. She also never breaks out or has pores that ooze or even would think to say the word ooze because honestly, it’s disgusting. She doesn’t know how to spell split ends. She’s photogenic, even when she’s telling a story.
The woman I’m never going to be is balanced. She goes to yoga regularly and is never the person late for class, dodging around bodies in Shavasana and offering that “so sorry!!” shrug/smile as she tries to squeeze her mat in last minute. She always eats her greens. She never just eats potatoes and chicken over the sink. She can have just one glass of rosé without just saying “what the hell” and finishing most of the bottle. She is always in control. But in like, a chill way.
The woman I’m never going to be forgives her family for being human. She doesn’t roll her eyes towards people who reach out after years of radio silence for favors. She calls her mother regularly. They’re close. She feels comfortable being human in front of said family. She never feels the need to prove that she’s something worth paying attention to, something important, something, anything, to them.
The woman I’m never going to be is friends with her exes. She’s not an ice queen. She doesn’t block numbers like it’s going to win her some sort of prize. She remembers that somewhere between her and them and whatever used to be was something that at least resembled love. And she is okay with that. Happy even. She doesn’t write anyone off or set boulders instead of boundaries. The woman I’m never going to be knows how to remain distantly close with people who used to be her everything.
The woman I’m never going to be has a 5-year plan. She vision boards and manifests and meditates and is absolutely not the co-star in her own metaphorical movie. She can see where she’s headed, where she wants to go. And more than that, she’s directing herself on how to get there. She never feels lost, never feels like she needs a map. She’s her own compass. She’s never felt like she was anything else.
The woman I’m never going to be sleeps 8 hours a night, regularly. She doesn’t snore or sweat or drool. She would cringe at the word drool. She also always changes her sheets each week. She never eats in bed. She’s never found hair ties or bobby pins or someone else’s bra strewn about the comforter. She reads instead of scrolling on her phone mindlessly. She has a sleep mask. She’s always well rested and couldn’t tell you the last time she had a nightmare or jolted herself awake.
The woman I’m never going to be doesn’t throw away mail out of panic. She’s also never cried (or slept) in a bathtub. She’s never thrown up in an Uber. She’s never sobbed alone in a locker room. She’s never cut her own bangs because of a breakup. She’s never been impulsive or felt the need to maintain a level of interesting. She’s also still a brunette, probably.
The woman I’m never going to be doesn’t have little wrinkles forming around her eyes and mouth. She doesn’t use the same skincare products as me because she like, “Has really good skin naturally! I guess!” She doesn’t really worry about anything, and has definitely never discreetly checked her bank balance before swiping her card out of fear. She’s Pinterest-level perfect. She’s #goals. She’s unobtainable.
The woman I’m never going to be has never peed from laughing too hard, knocked teeth with someone while kissing, sucked her own bleeding finger instead of finding a Band-aid, killed a plant, killed literally ever plant, slept on a bare mattress, screamed in traffic, cared about someone a little too much from Bumble despite never meeting, or had a neck zit.
And that’s how I know. As I stare at the faded mark from neck zits past, the rough cartography of my own cuticles, and stare at someone who could smack my teeth every single time and I would go back begging for more. The woman I’m never going to be, is a woman who doesn’t need exist. 
