For a mom who puts on pounds just looking at a donut and lives a boring, solitary life, I’m ever so envious of my spaghetti-thin, 22-year-old babysitter Chloe who clearly hit the genetic lottery.
Chloe’s whole family — mom, dad, bro — were models, so she was destined for the catwalk before she could crawl. Everyone in her family was blessed with that perfect blend of DNA and genes that when all together they resemble a Ralph Lauren ad.
She rarely wears make-up, as her looks are lean more toward fresh-scrubbed athletic girl than sex kitten. The giveaway that babysitting is her side gig is she has cheekbones that could cut glass, mile high legs, and no hips or butt whatsoever. Like a straw with arms, she towers over me, making me feel like a fat dwarf.
Like any insouciant hipster, when not being photographed for Macy’s catalogs or Nike ads, she’s prone to spontaneously take off for exotic locations, as she did Easter weekend with her boyfriend, another carefree, good-looking person.
“Yea, my family owns a house there,” she said nonchalantly after she returned from Mexico tan and relaxed.
My Easter was lame. I did nothing.
“Sorry, I can’t babysit today. In Montauk,” she texted me last Monday while I was on deadline trying to finish a client report.
We have nothing in common except lots of boyfriend drama. Hers, however, are a better grade of men, as she has flown on a man’s private jet and hung out with Justin Bieber. My best was date was with a guy who drove a BMW.
Chloe breezed into our life when her friend, another skinny babysitter who lives a sweet life, ditched us for a catalogue shoot.
In my entire life, I have never been invited to do a catalogue shoot.