Anyone who’s close to me knows I love to joke around about being a stay at home yoga, trophy wife and competing with the best of the best. It is, in fact, one of my most favorite happy hour conversations to have with friends (well back in San Diego where I had ample friends). The way I see it, girls can start with average to below average genetics and driven by simple competitive spirit, ample resources a thirst for power, they can climb the ranks. Their weapons to proceed to the next levels include new body parts, new hair, refreshed labias, and new social media images. It takes a village to rise to the “top.” And for the ones who do it well, and are driven by their insecurities to sink all of their energy into staying there, I have a massive amount of respect for you. These are the crème de la crème, the masters of image control, and it has taken them true grit to cement their spot in bitch royalty.

As someone who was always drawn to the power of reinvention, I was the young girl who identified more with power hungry Disney villains than the dopey princesses. I was fascinated with their open thirst for power and winning. Did Ursala, give up on life because she was an octopus and not a mermaid? No. She harnessed her talents of manipulation, magic and wit to prey on a naïve adolescent mermaid who only had seashells and a voice. We don’t know a lick about Ursala’s upbringing or former social status within the sea kingdom but one can assume she didn’t have King Triton to shelter her. No, everything she had (those little mermaids raked across the grove) she worked for. That bitch had to WERK for her place in life. And as I attempted to hang in a packed 90 minute yoga class that catered to the city moms (the ones who hadn’t moved to the suburbs, who were still clawing and swatting at the others to remain at the top of their game), I felt the same complicated feelings of pride, respect and empathy like I still do for the villains. Often misunderstood and incredibly talented, these moms have worked their asses off to maintain bods, style, and most importantly, the adoration of the weak from which they draw their construct of power.

Have I mentioned I love a good competition? I come by my competitive nature, genetically. I figured that out the day my 80 plus year old grandmother started drag racing my 60 plus year old mother down the street with me riding shotgun. It was Oldsmobile Cutlass versus Toyota Matrix and I was doubled over in hysterics. I needed verbal confirmation of the obvious which had just taken place, Nai Nai, did you just drag race mom home?!?! She giggled and responded, “Why not? I won, didn’t I?” To be a good competitor at anything you have to have a fire in your belly. And to have that fire, you must have at one time felt completely misunderstood. You don’t just go from being a sweet little thing to out for blood. It takes years of injustice you’ve endured to build that fire and cross into villainess status. But after you’ve accessed it once, the recall time shortens and you get skilled at harnessing your power exactly when you need it. Maybe it’s the competitive bitch in front of you at Starbucks, trying to make her latte skinnier than yours? Maybe it’s the bitch at the gym, who just saw your weight on your bar and raised you 10 pounds? Maybe she’s lurking in the salon chair next to you with a comment on how baylage is so 2015 as your stylist applies the color to only the ends of your hair? Wherever she is, depending on my mood, sometimes elbows need to be dropped. And not to gloat or anything, but I’ve gotten so good at this, I can harness my daddy issues faster than you can fry an egg and BOOM, I’m ready to rumble!

The unnecessary backstory I provided above leads me to participating in and observing yoga bitches. I have never lasted more than 30 minutes in a yoga class. Like. Ever. However, a friend reached out and invited me and since I have an average of 2 friends in Chicago I was like, HAN YOU CANNOT TURN THIS DOWN, FOR IF YOU DO, YOU WILL SURELY SHRIVEL UP AND DIE FROM LACK OF LOCAL FRIENDSHIPS! I was so friend starved, I’d go scrape road kill if that was the proposed activity by a potential new friend. So in truth, I attended this damn yoga class out of friend desperation and saw a byproduct would be a test of maturity. If I can last in a 90 minute yoga class, maybe I’m finally patient enough to take up golf? Trapped in the confines of my mind and out of the commitment I made to my friend, I had to fight my urge to leave at the 30 minute mark and go find a donut instead. I remember thinking, how the hell am I going to distract myself from the task at hand for the next hour, and fake participate? I did what I’ve done since I figured out school and requirements by society standards are incredibly boring, I began to observe the women around me and to daydream.