Do you know the girl on The Bachelor who you think is going to get the last rose all the way up until she, well, doesn’t? I am that girl.
On paper it all makes sense: Private New England Boarding School, Expensive Liberal Arts University, Respected Wealthy Family, Attractive Physical Attributes and anything else worthy of obnoxious mid-sentence capitals. Yes, I have it all, or as I like to parahrase, the brains/the dough/the bod. What’s the problem? (My mother wants to know) Why am I un-married and jobless at twenty-four? It doesn’t make sense, right?
Wrong. It makes total sense. I am a second choice girl. I am the girl that always gets foiled by the under-dog. I am Galinda in Wicked, Amber in Hairspray, Rizo in Grease (I just needed a brunette!). In short, I am that girl–the girl on The Bchelor who should’ve gotten the guy but didn’t for reasons that trascend paper.
Am I mad about this? Does this knowledge upset and infuriate me in ways that span the depth and breadth of logic? Not so much. Being the second choice girl–the one who is always pit against just one other candidate for the job (the one with more experience and less need for a salary)–it kind of has its perks. For one thing, everyone loves a loser.
Think about it–once Jordin Sparks wins American Idol will you buy her CD? No way! She’s a winner! She already won! But when Kelly Pickler or that rock dude Chris comes out with an album aren’t you a little curious? People like to see other people fail and try again. It’s the most human, relatable characteristic that mankind posseses. Being a second choice is like being an everyman. Every man has at one point or another, been that second choice. They’ve lost the job to someone more qualified, they’ve lost the guy to someone who didn’t have sex on the first date. It happens to everyone just like it happens to me.
So to get back to my point, I don’t pity myself for being a second choice girl. If anything it makes me more human. It makes me a grittier, more complex female and at the very least, it gives me something to bitch about knowing full-well that if I got it, I’d probably just f*ck it up.
Besides, if I was who it says I am on paper, I’d probably still be a virgin. (And how would that be any fun for you?)
