White Tie, Black Leather

2: Sit Still, Look Pretty

The next day I awake, still at my desk, with a Principles of Neurosurgery book as a pillow.

I groggily raise my head and pat my braided-bun, which is still in place from the day before.

When I check the clock, I see that it's one P.M.— way past the appropriate time for me to be sleeping.

    I bolt out of the chair, black spots dancing before my vision, and stumble to the bathroom where I flip on the shower and hurriedly strip.

On days of large events and parties, mother likes to start prepping around two P.M., which means I have about an hour to make myself presentable and hide the fact that I slept in so late.

    Ladies don't sleep longer than their husbands do. Since you don't have a husband,let's just say that you don't sleep past six... That's the time Daniel gets up too, you know?

Her overbearing words ring in my ears as if she'd just shouted them at me. I quickly shampoo, rinse, condition, and rinse my hair, wash my body, then step out of the steamy glass room.

    I wrap a towel around myself and let my hair hang limply down my back as I go to the fogged mirror. After wiping away the condensation, I stare at myself for a moment.

Brown, almond-shaped eyes stare back at me, almost curtained by pitch-black hair, and a small nose doused in a set of barely noticeable freckles adorn my tanned skin.

Full pink lips slightly move as I breathe as does my sharp jawline and I run my fingertips over my chapped mouth.

    "Definitely beautiful. Are you a model?" Most people would say. "You're the most gorgeous girl in the world. I love to show you off," Old lovers would say.

Yes, I'm beautiful, I know that, but there's a price for it.

    No one will ever see you for anything except for your beauty. When I'd explain that I wasn't a model or I had to study and couldn't go out, they would say things like:

"You? A neurosurgeon? You? Top of your class? You? Going to Stanford? Sweetheart, don't waste your pretty face on things like that," or "Wow. You're choosing school over me? Since when are you even smart? Look, I'm not dating you for your brain."

    When it comes to beauty, people only see as far as the surface. They don't ask about your life because pretty people always have it perfect, don't they?

They don't ask about your interests because the only thing you can be interested in is your own appearance.

They don't get to know you since they assume you'll be there one minute and gone in a flash, because you think you deserve someone better than them.

    Those are some reasons that I want to be a neurosurgeon— to show people that I'm not simply on earth to showcase a clothing line or to be praised for my appearance.

I want to show them that beautiful people can do things other than sit still and look pretty—that we can actually make a difference. I want to show them that we can be just as intelligent as the next person.

Of course, my mother doesn't approve of this—no one I'm surrounded by does.

Their ideals of  perfect life is to be a submissive socialite wife that does nothing but organize parties and drink fine wine. If they're happy doing that, then I can respect that.

However, that's not what I want for my life. I don't want to be controlled like some puppet, only used for my family name and sex.

No, I'm going to be so much more, and when I rise to the top I'll show them all what it's really like to live "the dream."