Elitist and Better For It

Sara is coming back from DC soon, and I am excited for two reasons: 1. She will be a buffer (sort of) between Sarah and me, 2. I just love hearing Sarah blindly support Sara’s plans for saving the world with her political prowess.

Her most recent email explains the obstacles that her virtuous plan encounters–11 paragraphs about how her “friends” in DC think she’s addicted to money and power. Excerpts (best parts highlighted for easy judgment… but all of it is entertaining):

They always point out the times I mention something that could even be remotely linked to power and money. For instance, I really like Diesel jeans on guys. One girl said, “Because it signifies that he can afford expensive things, which you’re attracted to. You say it’s the fit, but cheaper jeans could fit well too. Or how you picked out this girl who has a Chloe bag; not a lot of people do that.”

This bothers me because I’ve always made an effort to not be a bad person, but is it so bad that I’m so materialistic? Is it awful that I would like a job that pays well? Do I name drop too much? Am I incapable of concealing it from people? I’ve never claimed to be a saint when it comes to my superficiality and ambition. Yes, I’m an elitist, but my life is better for it.

My business friends think I’m really honorable because I want to go into development and that I’m interested in the world’s welfare. When I’m with these “academics” in DC, they think I’m a bad person. They don’t see that you have to work within the system to fix it. People need money and power to influence others to act. However, I don’t know how to justify my affinity toward nice clothing.

Guys, keep me in check when I get too arrogant because that’s the last kind of person I’d want to be.

Aside from how much this reveals about Sara’s character, Sarah’s email reply is also incredibly precious:

You know I’m just going to agree with everything you said, but here goes. What the fuck is their problem? If they are so disgusted by money/power, they shouldn’t have spent the summer in a city that embodies both. While they’re judging you for liking money and power, I’m judging them right now for dressing poorly.

As for liking nice clothes, that doesn’t mean you’re attracted to money and power only; it just means that you have better taste than everyone else. If someone is wearing cheap jeans, I’ll know that they have no taste, no sense of humor, and no aspirations in life.

All this judgement [sic] is making me hungry. Call me later.

Don’t I live with the most amazing and compassionate ladies?

Pear

I’ve been trying really hard to stay in touch with Sara while she is away this summer because she is moving back into the double room with me come Fall semester… and it’d be kind of awkward if we weren’t speaking.

We were on the phone today, and I admitted that I knew about how Sarah feels about my clothes.

“It kind of hurts to know that she is judging what I’m wearing so harshly, especially when I can’t really help the circumstances,” I said carefully.

“Yeah, I understand.” Sara continued, “I mean, I prefer Diesel jeans because they fit me really well. And Sarah usually has really good taste, but those gray skinny jeans she just bought makes her look like a huge pear.”

“Uh, does she know that?”

“No, I’d never tell her to her face.” [Of course. Backstabbers don't ever confront people.] “Plus she’s really insecure so I don’t want to make it worse.”

Wait, what?! Sarah the Queen of Greatness is insecure?

“That’s why she tries so hard to be ‘in’ with Jason’s hipster friends.” Sara went on, “It’s so obvious that Sarah wants to be accepted in the hipster crowd since she has never had many friends.”

Suddenly, I wasn’t so surprised anymore. It’s a tell-tale sign of insecurity to proclaim your superiority over others. I actually kind of feel bad for her now. I must be going crazy.

The Stars Aren’t Blind, They’re Deaf

The room that Jules and I are sharing has a window that faces the yard right next to our stoop, where Sarah began sitting after the incident on our neighbor’s porch. Unfortunately, that means Sarah’s constant ranting is too easily overheard.

Today, she was on the phone with Sara to discuss a matter of utmost importance: my jeans.

“I think that Roommate totally underestimates my hate for cheap jeans,” Sarah griped.

Let’s clear this up now–my family is not well-off financially, and the little money I make working 10 hours a week goes to groceries, textbooks, and bills.

“Like, she really does not get how much I detest generic denim! Her clothes look sooo tacky.”

I suppose I can’t expect either of the Sara(h)s to understand my situation (which I don’t think is uncommon) since neither work and their parents pay for their 7s.

“Speaking of jeans, I was looking online and I found this pair of Citizens and another pair of Diesels. I don’t know if I should buy them both since I already have two pairs of Diesels.”

Of course, as I’m trying to get some work done in my room, I’m groaning because I can’t block out the ringing sounds of Sarah’s elitism.

When Sarah finished her rant about inferior denim, it got worse. She moved into the kitchen and began to blast her hipster music. Everyone in our apartment is elitist about their music tastes (except on days where we all pull out the old BSB/NSYNC album), so I was rather surprised to hear this song blaring through the house.

“I can’t help it! I know it’s Paris Hilton, but it’s so catchy,” Sarah responded to my request to spare my ears.

Note: I apologize for linking you all to that video.

It’s a Little One-Sided

It has been pretty great living with a roommate who doesn’t make me feel completely worthless. Jules and I have been spending a lot of time together after our work day is over, both at home and while going out.

Some of my good friends like to entertain at their apartment, so almost every weekend we trek over to their place and enjoy whatever silly theme they’ve come up with that time. So far this summer, we’ve been through a cocktail party and a “bro” party which involved a lot of Dave Matthews posters, N64, and a mad search for polo shirts for popped collars.

Then there are the more normal nights where we get ready to go out while dancing to Britney or Justin in our room. I’ve always wanted to have a sister to share clothes and go out with. Freshman year, the Sara(h)s and I used to do that. At least, we swapped shoes sometimes and Sara even gave me a pair of hers that she knew I coveted. And Sarah always had me do her makeup before going out.

Now, it’s just them coming to me when they need something from me (including waking me up to ask to borrow a skirt, despite knowing about my sleeping problems). But if I’m going on a date and my coat has a fat hole in it, I get a pretty resentful groan and a reluctant “Ergh… fine… I guess you can wear my coat”, which I don’t understand because I was taught always to take extra care of other people’s belongings–something the Sara(h)s never learned because my shoes will come back with scuff marks and holes. One time, Sara even admitted to me that she couldn’t stand when Sarah borrows her shoes because they are always ruined afterward.

I suppose I just can’t blame them for never having to take care of their things; afterall, they can just go buy $200 jeans when they want to whereas I have owned the same coat for six years (thus the huge hole in the pocket). Just like you can’t blame Paris Hilton for being spoiled.

Do I have "maid" written on my forehead?

I should’ve known what to expect of my new roommates based on the first question Sarah asked me before we moved in together: “Do you have a lot of clothing? Because I do, so I’m going to need a lot of closet space.”

She meant it. Perhaps it is due to my indifference to changing fashion trends (I will always be a cute-top-and-jacket-with-jeans girl), but the volume of her clothing was four times the size of my wardrobe. And those were just the items she brought to college.The other girl turned out to be no different. Both named Sara (one will have an “h” in these stories to help differentiate), both from the same high school, and both shoe-sized 7.5.

Crap. I had been third-wheeled. Stuck with the two best-friends-since-2nd-grade girls.

It was clear that I was not an equal in their eyes, with my middle-class background, lower SAT score, and lack of brand name clothing (as they were quick to point out: “Ohhh, the house you grew up in is totally cute; it’s so small!”, “You never took an SAT course?! Everyone from where we’re from does!”, “Are your D&G reading glasses the only brand you own?”). Though I tried to make the best of it, I couldn’t help but find myself disagreeing with them sometimes, especially over apartment chores. They initially seemed to be open-minded enough, as we did spend a lot of time getting to know each other, talking about TV shows and other chit-chat type things. But then I overheard Sarah on the phone discussing how I often had to ask her to pick up after herself.

“She bitched at me about the messiness of our house and how I drag rocks into the kitchen! She, like, resents me because I have superior taste in fashion or something.”

Yep. I definitely resent Sarah because she wears expensive jeans, and not because of the dialog we exchanged earlier:

“Sarah, are these yours?” I had asked, gesturing toward candy wrappers strewn over the table.

“Um, no,” she said after a long pause.

I tried to laugh off her unconvincing response, “Can you please throw them away?”

“No,” she continued pointedly, “because I know you’ll just do it for me.”

Awesome. I love playing maid to girls from states where throwing away one’s own trash is not encouraged.