Pink and Princesses

January 6, 2010
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Dear Diary,

I’m trying to think back to when this all started but the only thing that comes to my mind was that “fun” afternoon I was lovingly forced to attend. I can see it as clear as day. I tried looking at my reflection in the mirror, but my face was lost in a sea of colors, each one fighting for its chance to be the most vibrant on my Emilio Pucci dress. I was seven-years-old, and this was the outfit that my mother had chosen for me to wear to my play-date. The long sleeves itched my arms, but I knew that if I scratched, Mom would have a fit. So I had no other choice but to bear the uncomfortable burden that had literally been placed on my shoulders.

I continued to stare at the mirror with a puzzled look across my face. Mom crept up behind me and placed a red barrette in my blonde hair. Apparently red had won the attention-grabbing battle and named itself the most dominant color. Mom slipped my matching red shoes onto my feet and afterwards looked up into my eyes. You’ll have fun, she said to me. But she knew more than anyone that I did not like these girls. However I had no choice. I had to be friends with these girls. Our moms played tennis together and you know the rules: if the moms are friends, the kids are friends. No exceptions.

We slid into the back seat of the car that Mom had called to take us to Portia’s house. I took a sip from my apple-pear juice box and peered out of the car window at the streets of New York City, my city. So many people roamed the sidewalks of NYC; so many strange people that at that point did not exist to me. I was inside of my own little bubble. Suddenly, we hit a sharp turn. I was careful to keep the straw inside of my mouth so not to spill one drop of it onto Mom’s blue dress that she had bought at Barney’s just days before.

Of all of my “friends” that we visited, I liked going to Portia’s home the most. Her apartment was the biggest. I don’t know if you can even call it an apartment. It’s more of a penthouse/mansion. She had a view of the entire city, and a butler named Stefan, who had a German accent. Portia hid behind Stefan as he answered the door for mom and I, and as soon as she saw me, she ran between his legs to greet me. She was always the overeager one, but I didn’t mind. She was my favorite. She placed my hand in hers and yanked me toward the direction of the playroom, tripping on her own feet multiple times. She had always been clumsy.

When we arrived at the playroom, all the other girls were already there, sitting in a circle, playing “pretty-pretty-princess”. Everyone gave me a smile, except for Olivia who’s scowl would forever remain across her not-so-attractive face. I guess a permanent grimace makes you uglier, or in Olivia’s case, just plain ugly. I was warmly welcomed into the circle and was given a seat next to Abigail and Bianca. I’m actually not sure they were that happy that I split the two of them up. They were usually inseparable. It could get really annoying.

As the moms drank their tea the daughters sat at their own table, eating finger sandwiches and various pastries. Bianca’s mom gazed in our direction and let out a soft chuckle. I wasn’t able to tell if it was in amusement or disgust. I would’ve asked someone else, but every other girl was engrossed in a deep conversation about the color pink or her favorite Disney princess. No one else had even noticed. I whipped my head in the other direction in a desperate attempt to join a discussion. Mallory and Cara were yelling at each other like they always did. I couldn’t tell who was who, but I didn’t really care at that moment. I didn’t want to join them anyway. Kylie was too busy admiring her new Louis Vuitton purse that her mom had gotten her to pay attention to anyone else. I had no one to talk to. I shoved another chocolate éclair into my mouth and sat in my seat, pouting.

After another hour of this torturous play-date, Mom finally said we could go home. As soon as the door shut, I started crying my eyes out. I knew better than to show the other girls myself at a moment of vulnerability. They could never know I didn’t like them. I had to be friends with them for the rest of my life. I couldn’t let myself show my frustration at being forced into this “friendship”, if you could even call it that. Our get-togethers were merely entertainment for our mothers. They didn’t care if we enjoyed ourselves or were even happy. As long as they had a good time, the meet-ups would continue. At least, that’s what it seemed like.

So, Diary, as you can see, my life is a complicated mess. I’m not sure what to do at the moment. Things just randomly start coming back to me. Obviously I don’t mind, but I wish it was more important things, more useful things. My Pucci dress doesn’t exactly make my life headlines. I still don’t know how it happened. Hopefully, it will come back to me. but for now, I have to take it year by year, memory by memory. I wish I had started writing in you sooner.


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