Now I’m not a trust-fund baby (F*CK, I WISH!), I don’t make a heaps of money, and I pay Manhattan rent. If I lived anywhere else in the world, I might be doing sort of OK, financially — but I live in NEW YORK CITY.
However, this article isn’t about New York City. This article isn’t even really about money. It’s about living a glamorous, fabulous, glittering, lifestyle and being made to feel ashamed about it.
I didn’t realize the magnitude of my lavish lifestyle until very recently. I can’t help it. I was born glamorous. You can totally hate me for this if you want to, by the way. I’ve been in therapy for a while now, and I don’t need everyone’s approval all the time anymore. And luckily, I have a few glam friends who get it:
But, boys and girls, tell me, is there really a need to shame me and my luxurious friends for being glam? I mean, half of the girls I know in New York City who dutifully take the subway and sport beat up converse are way richer and more spoiled than I am. Their “ripped” jeans aren’t ripped because they’re worn down — they’re actually Rag & Bone distressed denim that retail for $450.
They might live in dirty Brooklyn lofts, but those “run down” warehouse spaces cost twice as much as my pretty little Upper East Side shoe box.
Look, I get it: Being glamorous is not cool. Being unglamorous is “en vogue” right now. It’s hip to look dirty and hit the dive bars even when you have a trust fund.
But does that mean I really should be incessantly subjected to dirty looks, bitchy eye-rolls and back-handed compliments about how “overdressed” I am? Why can’t everyone just LET ME LIVE?
I’m not asking you to finance my lavish lifestyle, so who the f*ck cares if I spend $52 on Tom Ford lipstick? I’m single. I don’t have children. I, by the way, you smug little trolls, low-key do a sh*t ton of community service (Most of my jobs have been non-profit).
And most importantly, I can strut around the city in my 6.5-inch mega platforms faster than you can in your ugly ass “flats.”
Think I’m lying? Try me bitches. Try me, but stop shaming me. I’m a 29-year-old woman trying to survive in the cruel, cold world like everyone else.
Don’t Uber-shame me.
The other day, I was with my friend Sam (who is totally low-key bougie but in total denial).
“I’m not taking the subway home,” I declared. She had convinced me to get high as a f*cking kite with her on a downtown rooftop, and I don’t usually smoke. There was no way I could face the subway stoned — not that I ever take the subway anyway (but at least I had a good excuse for ONCE).
As I picked up my pink glitter iPhone 6 Plus and pressed my nail-polished finger on the comforting “Uber app,” she gave me a judgmental stare down, sending shards of shame down my spine.
“Zara, we are right by the train, AND there is a 2.5x surge price. Don’t Uber — that’s f*cking ridiculous! You’re ridiculous!” She cried, dramatically puffing on her perfectly rolled joint.
“F*ck off. I’m taking Uber, you bitch,” I smugly replied, pressing down extra hard on the “confirm your trip” tab for dramatic effect.
“Fine” she said, exasperated, staring out into the starless New York City sky.
My text message made the little ding sound. I checked; it was the Uber driver informing me he was outside. As I went to reply “coming outside,” I realized I had a long text HISTORY with said Uber driver.
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Ever since that realization, I check my text history with Uber drivers, and 90 percent of the time, I’ve ridden with them before. That means out of all the tens of thousands of Uber drivers in New York City, I, Zara Barrie, take it so often that I get repeat drivers. Extreme, even for me.
But you know what? Who f*cking cares? I’m not going to apologize for not wanting to be crammed on the subway in a skimpy outfit, lace stockings and bright red lippy at 1 am.
Plus, life always just seems better in the back of an Uber, you know? You can’t put a price tag on happiness, Kittens.
Don’t Champagne-shame me.
“You ordered champagne,” a 21-year-old co-worker judgmentally purred to me, smugly pulling on her “vintage” grandfather sweater. “That’s like so fancy. You’re sooo bougie,” she squealed, her button nose straight in the air.
“Well, what the hell are you drinking?” I humbly inquired, tapping on my crystal champagne flute with a pointed, freshly polished nail.
“Beer, duh,” she replied like it was the most obvious thing on the planet. Like there was no other drink one could possibly enjoy at 5 pm at a local little bar after work.
I’m sorry, but my expensive lipstick lips will never touch beer.
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That would be disrespectful to my $52 Tom Ford lipstick, DUH. I can’t help that champagne just suits my body. I just like the way bubbles sift down my throat and penetrate into my spirit.
I exclusively drink champagne, and if the bar doesn’t have champagne, I simply don’t go.
Don’t daytime lipstick-shame me.
“Isn’t that a little much for the DAY!?” My ex used to say every time I left the apartment. She was referring to my love for bold lipsticks. Look if I feel sexier in a dark violet lip, why shouldn’t I wear it in the middle of springtime day? Am I only allowed to feel sexy in the day?
If those are the “rules,” I’m consciously choosing to disregard them. I want to feel sexy as f*ck all the f*cking time. I do a better job when I feel sexy, I’m a kinder human being when I feel sexy, and most importantly, I’m a happier, more confident human being when I feel sexy.
I don’t care if it’s harsh to your delicate eyes in the daylight. Invest in some sunnies, darling, because I’m not going to stop.
Don’t heel-shame me.
The other day, I was walking around Manhattan at 7 am, way uptown on 92nd Street, when I noticed all the Upper East Side MILF moms giving me looks of death. They were all walking their plaid-skirt, baby-Moncler-puff-coat-wearing kids to school as I haphazardly attempted to catch a cab downtown to work.
Why is everyone looking at me so strangely? I silently wondered as I stuck my mega bangled arm out to catch a cab. I noticed a pattern; they were all staring at my feet. I was wearing open-toed platform sandals in the winter (with tights! I’m not a SAVAGE).
Look — just because I wear HEELS all of the time, even in dire weather conditions, doesn’t mean you need to constantly point it out in large crowds, give me incredulous looks OR publicly humiliate me.
If I want to f*ck up my feet and back, that’s my prerogative.
I like looking at the world from stunningly high views. I see sh*t the rest of you bitches in flats don’t see.
Unless you’re tall. And if you’re tall, I’m extremely jealous of you, and maybe if I was YOUR HEIGHT, I wouldn’t wear such large heels.
But no, I’m not tall. I’m a short jewish girl just trying to live her life.
Don’t fab dress-shame me.
“Woah, that’s a lot for WORK! Isn’t that, like, uncomfortable?” a new Elite Daily employee exclaimed to me recently (poor honey didn’t know I dress like this every day). I looked down at my dress. I was clad in my favorite pale blue vintage cocktail dress, given to me by a darling (and super glam) family friend.
Yes, it’s a lot for work. But what am I supposed to do? Wear jeans? I hate jeans — I don’t look or feel good in DENIM. And don’t even get me started on f*cking leggings.
Why does every girl who wears “leggings to work” feel so bloody smug about it?
“Oh, I don’t dress up. I’m always in my leggings!” girls will boast, running their bare fingers along their barre-class thighs.
We get it. You have skinny legs and want us all to know you WORK OUT. I got it. (I’m going to the bar in heels, so see you later).
Truth be told, I don’t judge you legging-wearing-waifs for ruining the art of fashion (an art that I’m super passionate about) in the name of “comfort,” so stop judging me for wearing uncomfortable cocktail dresses in the day!
Yes, there aren’t always the most comfortable garments to wear…but SCREW IT. It’s me wearing it — not you.
You keep doing you in tights and over-the-knee flat boots. Let me do ME in cocktail dresses and over-the-knee stiletto boots.
Don’t fancy restaurant-shame me.
I’m sorry, but I’m really not sorry about this one, lovelies. I don’t like sh*t chain restaurants. They lack imagination, and I live for the imaginative.
I only want to go places where I can have my glamorous cake and eat it too!
