Mediocre at Best

I strut around town flaunting my mediocrity like an aging New York socialite in a thick, gaudy fur coat, oblivious to the fact that the world I use to know is changing and that the new generation is much further ahead than I ever was or ever will be I clink my fruity drinks against the glasses of the finest and drape my arms around them like we’re good friends, pouring out story after story about exotic places that I’ve never been to and dark, interesting people that I’ve never met, and their eyes spin in their heads when I smile and brush against them It would never cross my mind to think that they might be tired of me but lord knows they are. They pass harsh whispers between each other’s ears as I turn away. “Who invited her?” They ask each other, giving sour looks to whomever they suspect I tell myself that I’m too good, that I could never be that girl I could never be so disliked, they are my own peers, after all We are all a special breed, so perfect and lovely, we must stick together They can see me at sea level from their mountain peak but in my eyes our heights- marked so carefully on the kitchen door frame- are matched, and they resent how blind I am, and I am happy though unaware