When we’re side by side, walking down the street, every glance is in her direction. I’m the one they look at when they want to see who’s brave enough to be in the presence of such beauty. I pretend not to notice, but I feel like an accessory – when we’re together, it’s as if I don’t exist.
I’m the personality to her looks; my wit has to somehow compete with her beautiful appearance. Every time we’re in a bar, I’m brushed to one side. I want to say, “I may not have the instant appeal of my friend, but it takes time to get to know me. I’ve got other things going for me that my beautiful friend hasn’t.” But they don’t care – they’re under her spell. It kills me sometimes that I don’t get the same kind of treatment.
She’s so self-assured. She always tells me I look “beautiful” or “amazing”, but she knows she’ll always be 10 times more so. She’s never had to worry about anyone looking better than her.
When she complains about a supposed bad hair day, I am incredulous, but still the supportive BFF. “No, you look amazing,” I say, and mean it.
I hate the way she looks at me with her perfect pose. She knows how good-looking she is, but plays dumb, claiming she’s just another girl when really she is the “it” girl.
I was secretly ecstatic one summer when she put on a lot of weight and was wallowing in misery. I had a spring in my step when we walked down the street, but she still managed to take centre-stage, even with her muffin top.