Reality is only slightly uglier than reality TV. Want proof? Picture this scenario if you would, please.
Location: Your bedroom, 2012. You’re reclined in bed, gorging on Ben & Jerry’s and watching reruns of Real Desperate Housewives of Pigeon Forge. As Penelepe Luffletwatz, heir to a vast pork rind empire, is blowing a wad of cash on a bronze-covered taxidermy statue of her late, award-winning stud goat Blaine, you contemplate your life and how all of your actions throughout the years have lead you to the place where you are right at this moment, and you experience a sad but common thought:
Why isn’t my name written in Diamonique on my teeth? Why don’t I have 22-inch rims on my Mercury Cougar? Why didn’t I think to invent Booty Pops? Why can’t that be me? Why can’t I be famous?
We’ve all thought that thought at one point in our lives, right? No woman who has ever been divorced and watched sadly as her ex-husband got custody of her beloved diabetic cat has not wondered at least 4,235 times why she couldn’t have married Kobe Bryant instead and gotten a $75 million settlement and three luxury homes instead of having to get a second job at Waffle House to cover the cost of the third mortgage on her double-wide.
“¦ unless your idea is to get a promotion down at the truck stop from cleaner of the men’s room to head slushy machine filler, then they are not an ingredient in the recipe for dressing for success.
So, what to do now? How does a person with no skill, no talent, no education, no class, and a scant amount of ambition become famous? Well, since the Kardashians aren’t exactly divulging their secret, you’ve got some thinking to do, don’t you?
I mean, I certainly can’t advise you on how to achieve fortune and fame, considering my lot in life, but I can certainly give you one bit of free advice, and it this this:
Stop. Wearing. Pajama. Jeans.
Just stop. They aren’t pajamas. They aren’t jeans. They aren’t flattering. They are not fashionable, and unless your idea is to get a promotion down at the truck stop from cleaner of the men’s room to head slushy machine filler, then they are not an ingredient in the recipe for dressing for success.
Dear heart, I hate to be the one to break this to you, but just because the label says “As Seen on TV,” it does not mean your fat ass wearing a pair two sizes too small to Albertson’s to pick up some wine coolers is going to get noticed by some blind, drunk agent with a crab-lice-riddled casting couch and become a star. The addition of wearing your hair curlers and house slippers does not equal shabby chic or domestic sophistication. It says to the casual observer the following things:
- I make poor decisions in life and thus have problems maintaining healthy interpersonal relationships.
- My fondest memories of childhood revolve around being sent to the store with a dollar in food stamps five times a day to buy a nickel piece of gum each time so my mother could gather up the change to buy a pack of Lucky Strikes.
- I have three maxed-out Discover cards.
- I met one of my children’s fathers in a prison waiting room.
- I think mayonnaise is a vegetable.
Look, I can’t give you the answers to how to achieve fortune and fame. I’m wearing the same jeans I had on yesterday to bartend, and my current bra reeks of daiquiri, secondhand smoke, and bleach.
What I can give you is a little bit of perspective on how the world sees you and what image you are projecting. Do the world, your nurse at the free clinic, and yourself a favor. Ditch the pajama jeans. You can thank me later.