Listen, Lipstick, you wouldn’t last five minutes in my job. When you’re an Ugly Wicked Step-Sister, you’re in the story, but you’re not the star. Nobody knows you’re alive. For example, I’m really good at math and tennis, but did you ever ask? No. You were always preoccupied with nose-wrinkling and eyelash-batting.
When you’re an Ugly Wicked Step-Sister, you always feel short-changed. You’re always asking, where’s my prince? Where’s my fairy godmother? Where’s my happily-ever-after? Huh?
And it’s not like I didn’t try—that fateful day when the prince came knocking at the door with the slipper. You know, the slipper. So what if the shoe was a sickly size 5 AA, and my feet are a robust 10 ½ EEE? I mean, who wears a size 5, anyway? Besides you, Barbie Doll.
I gave it everything I had. I turned purple polka-dotted trying to cram my foot into that shoe. I broke two shoe horns and actually cut my foot with a knife to make it fit. That’s how hard I was trying to be you!
So I’m sitting there—bleeding on the carpet—but Mr. Charming has no mercy. No, he insists on trying the shoe on my half-wit step-sister. Yes, Dimples--you. And, of course, it fits like a dream. A dream for you, a nightmare for me.
And the best.
Yeah, you heard me. Because that was the day I decided not to be an extra in somebody else’s movie. I started living the story of ME. Me with the 10 ½ EEE feet. Me with an aptitude for math and a wicked backhand in tennis.
I lost weight. I got contacts. I got a job with the IRS, and I’m making pretty good money. I’m dating a guy who loves tennis and math. And me.
And get this. His last name is Prince. Ironic, huh? No, Pink Cheeks. Irony isn’t the art of pressing your gown for the ball.
Oh, and by the way, my mathematically-challenged Princess . . . next week I’m doing an audit of the Castle.
Life is good.