Fine. I’m that woman. I am.

I’m the one standing in my front yard (which, until a month ago was overgrown and absolutely shimmering with weeds) yelling vulgarity across the neighborhood cuz my damn dog ran off.

I’m bra-less and my baggy shirt has smushed baby breakfast bar on it. Not today’s breakfast bar. Not yesterday’s, actually. I’m wearing pajama bottoms cuz they’re classier than sweatpants. I would wear yoga pants but they’re near impossible to find in size short and chub. Besides my only real requirement is that the material is elastic enough to accommodate all the different ways I’m going to scrunch myself in front of the computer.

“STITCH! DAMMITT GET OVER HERE. STIIIIITTTTTTTCH! You goddamn dog.”

Then the baby escapes through the open door so I start shouting at him too, cuz I’ll be damned if I’m going to chase after either of them in this (69 degree) heat.

OMG. Suburban moms should just kill themselves.

Teenagers walk past my house a lot, and they see me doing my daily bellow, or squatting like a defeated hobgoblin in my doorway, waiting for my daughter’s bus. And they think, “No. God no. Never. Not me.” I thought it. Most of us thought it.

Oh, child in skinny jeans. Don’t you know? I am not sexy. My house is small and dull in a town described the same way. I am not fresh. My potential has aged and turned from what could be into what it’s going to be.

But. I have no mortgage or car payments. My spouse and I are beautifully damaged in perfect compliment to ensure an eternity of co-dependent love, and my health insurance is sound. One day the desire for these things will drive you harder than your dreams do now.

You still smolder with the lusty faith of youth; the faith you WILL be better than everyone in just the way you want to be. That even though everyone else sold out, you won’t. You won’t be able to.

That simmer will cool, I’m so sorry but it will.

When it does, you may be me.

If you’re lucky.