Bickering, jealousy and ambition; the world of WAGs and Wannabes
“Babes,” She types quickly, each letter ripe with venom. “U aren’t his typ (sic). You’ll never get closer than that blue tick.”
I’ve never met this vaccuous bikini model, and I have to go through my inbox to work out which man she is talking about. It’s a random sports guy that she must have seen follow me. The whole situation is pretty absurd. And very, very funny. She honestly believes I have the same career ambitions as her: find a rich man, and grasp at every diamond and dollar from his famous fingers.
I don’t. “All yours, sugar plum,” I type back, honestly. Because, unlike her, I don’t base my worth on whether some sad act middle aged bloke with a blue tick wants to get in my knickers. Because, unlike her, I don’t need to pretend to enjoy the company of dull men to get anywhere. I don’t say that, because I’m a lady. She explodes at my indifference.
“You all say that,” she storms. “You are just a gold digger, you all are. You just want fame and famous men.” I wonder if she’s accidentally talking to her reflection. “He doesn’t like girls like you. I’m really close to him. He’ll never like you.”
I sit there gaping. Maybe I should tell her I’m very ambitious. That I’m doing my BSc and I am going to get a career or die trying. That I have something to offer aside from my body to men who see me as flesh to gawp over. That I would rather die than con men into thinking I was in love with them. That the idea of me pretending to be stupid and interested in trash culture would be an Academy Award feat. Instead of getting angry, I start laughing. Eventually, I’m practically crying over the keyboard.
You know my type? My type is smart. I love smart. I love witty, sharp, well informed guys with a chiselled knowledge of current affairs. I like men who speak three languages, read books for fun and don’t look bewildered when I make an Austen reference. Not money. Money can’t come up with a one liner at dinner. Money can’t buy you charisma, charm and interest. Oh, but he could buy you a pink ferrari? Yawn. Wait until your jewellery is garish and he leaves you for another blonde, sobbing into your soulless bank account.
If I want money, I’ll get money. I’ll work hard, I’ll make my own successes. I won’t rely on a man to provide for me because I don’t have to. It’s not 1950. I don’t have to parasite my success off our brothers. Beauty is a temporary commodity. When you aren’t lithe and your eyes don’t sparkle, you are as replacable as any other barbie. But when I am 60, I plan on having enough in my head to fend for myself, whether or not my beloved still wants to screw me, or his secretary.
Why can you have him? Because I deserve more. I deserve a man who really loves me. A man who doesn’t DM me because I’m pretty, but because he likes me. A man who still wants to kiss me when I’m tired at 6am and wearing my dressing gown. A man who wants my advice and opinions. I deserve a man that I respect. A man I can love whether or not he makes the rich list. A man who I want to come home to whether or not we live in Mayfair. A man who is still beautiful and wonderful to me when he has the flu and a huge student debt.
Be penniless, be broke, be terrible at football and be only famous in Watford.
Because this girl doesn’t view fake love as a career.
All yours, sugar plum.