When you think of a “trophy wife,” usually the first caricature that comes to mind is a bottle blonde with a somewhat hoochie style, married to a rich older man. Her perfectly manicured hands have a knack for swiping credit cards at fancy department stores, her professional ambition is completely replaced with social climbing, and her body is absolutely snatched thanks to regular spin classes (and the occasional secret trip to the med spa).

Perhaps if you were feeling generous, you would further expand on this image of “trophy wife” and acknowledge some archetypes: 

• The wholesome part-time yoga instructor who would rather you call her a “stay at home mom” (SAHM)
• The smart girl who graduated college but instead chose to pursue her “MRS degree” 
• The former business woman who had a career pivot and now hosts extravagant charity galas 
• The star-crossed lover who pretends she wasn’t his former secretary
• I’m sure there are others, but you get the point

I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror, only a few hours after my proposal. I feel officially branded by society with this new label…. I am now a “Trophy Wife.” My boyfriend fiancé is wealthy, and I am 25 years younger than him. A double hitter, and all it took to receive this label. But I certainly don’t feel like a trophy wife. The giant new ring gracing my finger unfortunately failed to remove this complex feeling of both inadequacy and distaste. 

I consider myself attractive. I comb through my long brunette hair with my fingers, vowing to never EVER dye it blonde. I like my shamrock-green eyes and feel a sense of accomplishment that my makeup looks so lovely this evening. Overall, my face is acceptable. But… wouldn’t a trophy wife just somehow be arbitrarily better? I definitely need to stop using CVS brand makeup, right? My nails are a bright red – not what I would have chosen if I knew I was getting proposed to. Hey! At least they were done, right?

My attention shifts downward. I stand 6’ tall and have always been athletic and active. However, my previously lean frame has somewhat softened in the past few years. I gently pinch my padded hips, dissatisfied with my overall shape. Trophy wives do not should not have love handles. I gained about 10 lbs. this past year. I blame it on a combination of my sedentary corporate job, late night stress snacking while writing papers for grad school, and the delicious joys of dating a man who LOVES food. I frown at the thought of my relatively chubby frame next to all the fit, perky, REAL trophy wives. 

I scrutinize my dress: a black Tommy Hilfiger dress with a light pink stripe near the hem. Do trophy wives wear stuff like this? Despite a recent knee surgery, I was able to wear Steve Madden wedges… yet I still mentally scold myself and wish I had worn the pair of Louboutin’s my boyfriend fiancé bought me for Valentine’s day. A true trophy wife would have subconsciously known to dress her absolute best, right?

Setting aside my mild distaste for my current appearance, I evaluate my personality. I am charismatic, charming, and an excellent conversationalist. However, I am prone to a lot of brash comments and social cues are not always my forte…. Regularly forcing me to employ my charisma to get me out of unfortunate social over-steps. But how does a real trophy wife act? How do they balance friendships with social climbing? I need to stop putting my foot in my mouth, that’s for sure. 

My authenticity feels like something I will need to compromise in order to adapt to my impending lifestyle. 

I glance at my ring and have the brief fleeting thought that maybe I could somehow avoid and reject this new label. I could fight it, right? I’m not a trophy wife! No! I am educated! I have a career! Options!

I swiftly shut down this thought process. My boyfriend fiancé is wealthy, and I am 25 years younger than him. A double hitter, and all it took to receive this label. Besides, I refuse to be the woman constantly justifying her life and fighting the opinions of others. That uphill battle would only drain me and leave me clawing for my dignity. I refuse to desperately attempt to change the minds of acquaintances and strangers.

No. I decide in this moment to embrace the label. I took my existing mental image of a “trophy wife” and shift my perspective. I already feel a complicated form of admiration for this caricature, and decide I need to cast aside the lingering undertone of disrespect for her. Having a successful husband is not a crime, and it is not fair to judge someone’s lifestyle and marriage based on such simplified and superficial facts.

However, this newfound respect for “trophy wives” only increased my feelings of inadequacy. I would need to “level up” in so many ways in order to fit in with this new lifestyle, right? Lots of training…

That’s why my brilliant concept illuminated within the depths of my devastatingly creative and witty imagination.

I’m a Trophy Wife In Training… aka a real TWIT.

It was perfect. A reclamation of the “trophy wife” label, acknowledging my upcoming learning, and mixed with a little satirical humor. I cackle out loud, admiring the brilliant genius in the mirror. My fiancé calls from the living room asking if I’m all right. With my newfound armor, I feel excited for what is to come, and I rejoin my future husband to properly celebrate our new engagement.