Then I’d always know what to wear in order to look like something between a real lady and a badass bombshell. Instead of smearing, the red paint would stick to my lips until the morning after. Spots would not dare to show their ugly faces. There would be no reason whatsoever to think about food since I would always forget to eat, tea and coffee and champagne would substitute it just perfectly. Whatever worries would come my way, I’d just shrug my shoulders and laugh them off. Practical thinking wouldn’t be necessary: high heels and a quick kind of intelligence would compensate. Few doubts would ever cross my mind. Life is not to be worried about, it’s to be lived. The book piles and quirky details around my house would be considered charming, not messy. I’d work hard and do something I love. And I’d own a lot of shoes that would decorate the hallway. I’d probably be dating a footballer, because that’s what those girls do.