am i the only one who feels like they’re literally wearing a skin suit every single day? i was at this showing earlier today for a five-bedroom on the upper east side—it’s got these floor-to-ceiling windows that make the city look like a toy—and i caught my reflection in the glass and i actually had to stop and think about who the hell that woman was. she’s wearing a thousand-dollar blazer and her hair is blown out into these perfect golden waves and she’s talking about 'the provenance of the crown molding' and i’m just standing there thinking about how my dad used to come home with black grease under his fingernails that he could never quite scrub out. he worked at the refinery for thirty years and now i’m here selling kitchens that cost more than his entire house (it’s actually disgusting when you think about it) and it just feels... quiet. like there’s a vacuum in my chest where the feeling should be. i’ve gotten so GOOD at it though that’s the scary part. the way i round my vowels now when i talk to the partners at the firm—i’ve scrubbed away every trace of the city’s grit from my voice until i sound like i was born in a brownstone with a silver spoon in my mouth. i practiced it for years (watching old movies and mimicking the way the clients sighed) and now it’s just... there. i catch myself saying things like 'it’s quite charming, really' and 'the aesthetic is rather derivative' and i want to throw up but the words just keep coming out because if i stop the performance for even one SECOND the whole thing collapses. i’m thirty-eight and i spend my weekends at polo matches i don’t understand and drinking wine that tastes like dirt but costs four hundred dollars a bottle just so i don't get found out as the girl who grew up eating canned spaghetti in a kitchen that smelled like damp wood. anyone else find themselves switching voices mid-sentence depending on who walks into the room? because my mom called me while i was in the breakroom today and i said 'yeah ma i’ll call ya back later' and my boss walked in and i swear to god my entire posture changed in half a heartbeat. i went from slouching and sounding like the neighborhood to standing perfectly straight and saying 'i’m so sorry, julian, just a quick familial obligation to attend to' and he didn't even blink. he thinks i'm one of them. he thinks i went to some private boarding school in switzerland instead of the public school where the heaters never worked and we wore our coats in class all winter... it’s EXHAUSTING but i don’t even feel the exhaustion anymore, it’s just this dull thrumming in the background like a refrigerator you forgot to fix. i’m sitting here in my apartment now and it’s 2am and the lights are all off except for the streetlamp outside and i’m looking at my shoes. they’re red bottoms. i bought them because everyone at the office has them and i thought they’d make me feel like i belonged but they just make my feet hurt. i remember my dad’s work boots by the front door—heavy, scarred, REAL. my whole life is just... ephemeral. that’s a word i used today to describe a wallpaper pattern. EPHEMERAL. i used it correctly and the client (a guy named Alistair who inherited everything he owns) nodded like i was a genius and i felt absolutely nothing. i’m mid-career, i’ve got the senior vice president title coming up, i’ve got the commission checks that should make me happy, but i feel like i’m disappearing into the upholstery. am i the only one who feels like they’ve lied for so long they don’t even know what the truth looks like anymore? i don’t even know what my actual hobbies are. i tell people i love 'the arts' and 'curating my collection' but honestly i just want to sit on a porch and drink a cheap beer and not have to think about 'curating' anything ever again. but i can’t do that because i’ve built this cage out of expensive habits and refined accents and if i stop now, how do i pay for this life? the cost of living in this city is a joke and i’m the punchline. if i go back to being me—the real me—i lose the 15 million dollar listings. i lose the seat at the table. so i stay in the costume. i wonder if my dad knows. he looks at me sometimes when i visit and he’s so proud, he sees the fancy car and the clothes and he thinks he won. he thinks he got his daughter out of the grease and the grime. but sometimes i think i’d give anything to just have one day where i didn't have to MASK my entire existence. where i didn't have to worry about my glottal stops or whether i’m using the right fork for the salad course. it’s not even that it’s hard anymore, it’s just that it’s all i am. i’m a collection of borrowed traits and stolen inflections. does it ever stop? or do you just keep going until you’re seventy and you realize you spent your whole life pretending to be someone that people like Julian would actually respect? i'm just so... empty. i'm not even sad. that’s the part that bothers me. i should be crying or something but i’m just scrolling through my phone wondering if i should buy that new handbag because it’s 'essential' for the fall season. anyone else?