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Embrace a different kind of Ick

Someone killed herself on the weekend, left behind two young girls and a doctor husband. She was the only one on the parent association that would occasionally talk to me, despite my daily efforts to show interest and enthusiasm in their children and their lives. Despite all appearances of a perfect life of private schools and private jets, her private life wasn’t so perfect after all.

What pressures, what pain, what loneliness that woman must have endured before reaching that point.

So I decided to sit out today’s daily post. At this moment, for me, life is to short to pretend that ick isn’t what it is, which is just plain old ick. Maybe next time this assignment comes up I’ll turn that ick into a brave-faced writing exercise.

But not today.

The last time the woman that killed herself spoke to me, she told me she *loved* my coat, playfully pulling me closer by the arm to pat the furry collar. “I’m addicted to leather” she told me. “This is so gorgeous and the fur is spectacular!”

I enthusiastically told her the reason *I* loved my coat was because it was actually NOT leather and the fur was fake. Really good looking fake leather and even more good looking fake fur.  Funny thing, for one brief moment I thought, oh, maybe these women that are acting like they are teenagers and ostracizing me are actually normal people! I really *did* want to fit in with those people. She’ll love the fact that no animals were harmed in making this coat! And then we can all just relax and be friends!

Not so.

The poor perfect woman yanked her hand away from my fake fur so fast and so hard that she actually bumped into the wall behind her. Holy smokes.  End of conversation.

So what is real and what isn’t? Is a perfect life real or is a “perfect” life not real?

Namaste, poor Kim.

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