PTA

Anyone can tell the devil their deepest desires; it's the holy one that's hard to look in the eyes.

Our white washed perfectly cleaned down every last detail perfect life's we pretended to lead are all a show for those more affluent than ourselves.

You would not boast to a poor man, but you'd lie to a rich one.

This sparkly clean matching sweater Christmas card life is all just a wall paper covering the reality that your miserable and crave more out of this benign routined existence you've created for yourself.

You hate the man you've been married to for 18 years and you think no one has noticed the tiny white pills your constantly slipping and your kids might give a big braced smile for your peers but little did you know your pageant queen perfect daughter has a surprise in 9 months and your son just got kicked out of the Ivey league college you forced down his throat  by making him live out the dreams you lost in your own self loathing.

But you go to church every Sunday and sit 3 rows away from the preacher just to make sure he knows you're a good church attending woman. It's your turn to bring bagels to the book club meeting and you've gotta run to the school to play pretend PTA head of directing knowing good and well your hair is greying too early and the nights are getting shorter and soon enough you'll be down in the dirt with nothing left to live for you except the children who secretly resent their pushed in the coat closet law you had for them and a husband who's glad he can finally take off the mask you've forced around his once free, uncaring face.

And your cold, wrinkled shell has finally worn of the pearls and the heels and the hairspray and all the memories and the pictures are just fake.

Behind every Sunday church visit is a car ride full of arguments behind every family photo hung perfectly aligned through the house are rebellious children and a man having an affair and behind the mask you put on every single day was a hurting, worn out woman thinking if she could just fake it for the world, maybe it'd be real.

But once you die it's not how big your house was or what kinds of grades your kids make or who put that perfect 18 karat diamond ring on your finger that will go with you, it's the life you lived. The things you've done. The mountains you've climbed and roads you've traveled. It's the black out drunk nights with your friends and jamming out in the car when it's a sunny day.

I don't know about you, but I wouldn't want my legacy to live among the PTA moms.