All skinny sports cars aside, things mean more when you buy them for yourself anyway. If I let my mom buy me everything she offered I wouldn’t have room in my life for anything.

Thankfully, my mom moved past the point of trying to live my life. That was only after years of trying to make her understand that I was nothing like her.

I’ve always been the kind of person who likes to do things for myself. I want to work for anything that I acquire in my life. For instance, I love my car, and not because it’s the greatest car ever, but because I paid for it with my own money. Money I earned back before my life was changed forever, before grandma died and left me millions. It’s my car. My mom doesn’t understand that. She’s never worked a day in her life.

I’ve never hated her for that, she’s just playing the cards she was dealt. My grandparents were always wealthy, so she’s never known any different. I was raised with money, too, but my dad dumped tons of reality into my life before he ran off to California without me.

Simply put, the money’s mine. The huge amount was dropped on me from my grandma’s will. I received it on my twentieth birthday, but I’d give it all back for just one more day with her.

She was a lot like my mom, meaning she loved to spend money. The difference was she wanted me to be happy with myself—she never made me feel like a disappointment. Her pride in me was evident, while my mom always looked down on me, made me feel like I was just one step below where I should be.

My mom always was a snob, though she’d never admit it. If you removed her impressive bitch mask, you’d see that she has a seriously diluted sense of self-worth. If she had an honest moment, she’d admit that having money makes her feel superior to everyone else. I think she gets off on it.

I’ve never felt the need to make my life less abnormal than it’s always been by being flashy with cash that I never wanted to begin with.

Normalcy has been in short supply for me. My permanent single status ruled the all-girls private school I grew up in, and I was dubbed Large Lilly, a.k.a. the Virgin Mary.  Just call me the president of the twenty-year-old virgins club! The member list includes me and a bunch of unattractive nuns.

When it finally happens for me, it’ll be real.  I have no desire to be in the kind of relationship my parents had before they divorced. They were miserable and hated each other. It was the perfect example of what not to be. I want love…the kind they write books about, but my fear of rejection refuses to make it possible.

A special shout out to all the awesome high school girls who taunted me daily. Thanks for the fabulous fat girl complex.

There’s a sense a comedy surrounding my situation. Technically, I could have anything I want. I could buy anything, but the one thing I can’t buy is the one thing I crave.  It’s not like you could run thru the closest drive thru and grab a relationship.

One hot boy toy to go, please!

My inner ranting was cut short by the bell over the door to Mirabelle’s, my favorite little cafe. My mom was already seated as she sipped her vanilla espresso. I hated the fact that she chose to sit in a booth instead of a table. I’d pull my fingernails out before I admitted that the booths were too small for me.

Guess who gets to play squeeze the fat girl in the tiny booth today?

“How was work?” Mom asked.

My presence didn’t even warrant her to look up from her daily newspaper—the financial pages, no doubt.

“Good,” I said. “How was the spa?”

I held my breath as I sucked in my stomach and slid into the seat. The table dug into my mini muffin top.

She ignored my spa question.

“Your father called. He says it’s been nearly two weeks since he’s heard from you.”

“Yeah, I know. I need to call him. I’ve just have been so busy at work. We got a brand new shipment in for the fall. Me and Shannon have been killing ourselves trying to get it all set up. You should come by, Mom. We have tons of stuff I know you’d love.”

She looked up at me like I’d lost my mind. Her newspaper rattled to the table.

“Honey, no offense, but you know I don’t shop at those kinds of places. I wish you’d quit that awful job, or at least consider working somewhere more appropriate. Your grandfather’s probably turning in his grave at the thought of his angel working countless hours. You weren’t bred for that, Lilly.” She blew on her espresso, sending the scent of vanilla my way.

“I know, Mom, but I enjoy it there. Mrs. Franklin’s talking about making me area manager over all three stores. I hope I get the job.”