My family and I live a life of ease. We have plenty to eat, our needs are met and on most days, I feel like the luckiest girl on the third rock from the sun. I do.
But, my skin has been crawling lately and I am trying, desperately, to be a big person and not come unglued each time I hear the phrase The Neighborhood, the one that is special in ways I guess I will never know.
When I am feeling particularly noble, I see the snobbishness, incessant chatter about moolah and plastic surgery for what it is: Insecurity. Desperation. Need. And I want to be kind.
I want to be kind but I am finding it hard when I'm pretty sure they aren't too eager to be quite as generous to me in my Target t-shirt and drugstore lipstick.
I used to think when Greg and I made more money someday - and ironically, we do these days - I wouldn't be unnerved by desperate housewives. That becoming affluent would erase my insecurities.
But anymore, the divide grows for me: Less about economic class, and more about lifestyle, choices and being a simple girl from the country. I'm pragmatic to the bone.
I'm not cut out to be a Jones, and today, I'm not sure what to make of it in a world gone mad, running, chasing but never satisfied.
Maybe I've had just enough.