Today we went to the pool. I had squeezed my sorry self into a swimsuit and was wearing my five-year-old swimsuit cover- up. My make-up was running off my face, thanks to the heat index of 107 degrees. My hair had not been washed in 48 hours. I was the picture of loveliness.
As we climbed into the car and headed out, I slipped on my sunglasses. Stephen suddenly piped up, "Mom, with those sunglasses on, you look like David Beckham’s wife."
Why yes, Darlin’, people get us confused ALL the time. Except for the fact that she wears spikey heels with her mini-dresses and I wear Keds with my knit yoga pants. And that she has a staff to take care of her family, and I’m just thrilled to have a dog that licks the chunks off the floor. Oh, and MY THIGH IS BIGGER AROUND THAN HER WAIST.
To be fair, my hair stylist and I did discuss the Posh Haircut before my last trim, and we were generally aiming in that direction. So you could say she and I have the same hair, if you squint your eyes, tilt your head sideways, and wear a blindfold.
I wouldn’t trade places with her for anything, though. I’ll take my Keds and my scrappy dog and my eight-year-old son who thinks I’m a rock star.
Anyway, her husband isn’t as hot as mine.
(And by the way, before anyone leaves me nasty comments about letting my son read articles about Posh Spice, let me assure you that the ONLY reason he even know she exists is because she’s married to Soccer’s Golden Boy, a title he fully intends to assume himself someday.)