Plan B (Just In Case)

You know what's the worst thing in life?

It's not back pain, not taxes, not even your neighbor swearing his cat meows in Sanskrit. The worst thing is realizing you're a fucking Plan B. A living spare tire. People don't call you because they want you - they call you because their shiny wheel just rolled into a ditch.

And let's clear this up right away: I talk to myself. Constantly.

But it's not some Zen Instagram crap like "love yourself" or "inhale peace, exhale bullshit." No. It's a full-on Balkan bar fight. One version of me accuses, another curses, the third tries to play therapist and gets bottled over the head. If you think I'm talking to someone, it's still me. Welcome to my mental tavern, where the bartender never shows up and the guests smash chairs until morning.

Come on, you're not always Plan B. The voice, too familiar to ignore, spoke in my mind.

.

Shut the fuck up. I am. Don't try to comfort me.

Not always.

Please. I still remember being twelve and only getting invited to a birthday because another girl caught chickenpox. My glorious social career started as a substitute for spots.

That was just bad luck.

Bad luck, my ass. That's a lifelong subscription. Friends call me when their Netflix & chill evaporates. Men choose me when Miss Perfect says "no.” My family keeps me as a backup for everything - except praise. Praise is always "out of stock" in my size. My brother is a genius, my sister a princess, and I? "Oh, and here's the other one, hope she doesn't start crying."

And the worst part? You learn to smile. You learn to say, "It's fine, really." You learn to act like it's an honor to be the stand-in. Being Plan B is like being a fire extinguisher – everyone's glad you're around, but nobody actually wants to touch you unless the house is burning.

***

Family - Golden Children and Me

Every family has that one person they brag about: "This one's a doctor, that one's a lawyer." I was: "This one… well, she's alive." The only time I was first was in line at the clinic, wheezing like an accordion.

Don't exaggerate. Here comes the voice again.

I'm not, I swear. Remember when they used to make family photo albums? Brother in a suit, sister in a dress, me blurred in the corner because they told me to hold the lamp. I wasn't a kid; I was the lighting crew.

That's dramatic.

Yeah? I was basically the family screensaver – only moving when someone jiggled the mouse.

Once, I told my mother, "Hey, I have talent too.”

She smiled, patted my head, and said, "Of course, honey, your talent is keeping everyone company."

Translation: "You're not good, you're not bad – you're a chair with Wi-Fi."

At every family dinner, my siblings were the main act, and I was background noise. The human wallpaper. If I vanished, they wouldn't notice – unless the confetti didn't get cleaned.

And God forbid someone needed to make a toast. My brother gave speeches that sounded like TED Talks. My sister's announcements had violin music in the background. Me? "Let's all drink because… um… the fridge is still working?" That was my level of importance.

***

School and Work – Training for Failure

It didn't stop at home. School was basically boot camp for becoming everyone's second choice. In soccer lineups, I was last. Every. Single. Time. The only way I touched the ball was with my face.

At least you participated.

Participated? The ball treated me like a guided missile - its target was my nose. They once shoved me into the goalie spot because no sane kid volunteered. Final score: 15 - 0. The other team carried me off like their mascot.

In class plays, I begged for a role. I wanted to be at least a tree. The teacher said, "Sweetie, we already have enough trees. Could you… manage the curtains?" So, while everyone else was clapping for the fairy queen, I was stuck in the dark, pulling ropes like a medieval peasant.

Flash forward: group projects. Other kids got to be "team leaders" or "design directors." Me? The girl who held the poster board. My contribution? Sweat stains and handwriting that looked like an alcoholic spider.

Work didn't improve things. My coworkers got the promotions, the bonuses, the "good job!" emails. Me? "Can you print this? Oh, and the coffee machine is broken, you're good with buttons."

My boss once told me, "You're like a Swiss army knife. Handy when everything else fails."

Yeah. Translation: "You're a multifunctional trash can." I wasn't an employee. I was tech support for human stupidity.

***

Love Life – The Backup Date

If school trained me, love life executed me.

Here's a scene: me, staring into the mirror, asking if I've ever been anyone's first choice. Answer: fuck no. The only time I was "first" was when the check arrived – because apparently my debit card was sexier than my face.

One guy literally called at three in the morning. "Hey, what are you doing?"

"Sleeping, like a human being."

"Yeah… well, she didn't want to come, so I thought…"

Do you know how pathetic I was to actually go? That much pathetic. I was basically an emotional 7-Eleven – always open, always overpriced, never anyone's destination of choice.

But at least you learned something.

Yeah. That I'm a fucking moron.

Another dude invited me to a wedding as his "plus one" because his girlfriend bailed. He said, "I can always count on you."

Yeah, people also count on public toilets, but no one puts them in a love song. Dating me was like ordering fast food at 2 a.m. – greasy, disappointing, but hey, at least it's available.

And don't get me started on Tinder. My inbox was like a lost-and-found for horny rejects. Messages like: "Hey, you up? The girl I actually wanted blocked me." I should've charged rent.

But come on, not all of them were that bad.

Oh yeah? One guy told me, "You're not my type, but my mom says I should lower my standards." I almost married him out of spite.

***

Friends – Rain Check Companion

Friends, my ass. I had this one "best friend." When her A-list was busy, she'd call me. Sunny day? Beach with them. Rainy day? My crappy apartment, because at least it had a roof. I wasn't her best friend. I was her emotional Uber – available on demand, no tip required.

Once I asked, "Why don't you ever call me first?"

She said: "You're not Plan B, you're just… flexible."

Flexible? Thanks, bitch, sounds like I'm a yoga mat – and trust me, people only step on me when they need to stretch. Another "friend" always called me to help him move. Lifting boxes, dragging furniture, and being bribed with pizza. When I asked, "Why don't you invite me to your birthday?"

He said, "That's more of a different crowd."

Translation: "You're labor, not a guest."

Being friends with me was like owning a fire escape – useful in emergencies, ugly the rest of the time.

***

Breaking Point

I could have swallowed all that, until the day the guy I thought I had something real with looked me dead in the eye and said: "You weren't my first choice… but better than nothing."

In that moment, my brain started writing a horror script. I could've drowned him in his soup and called it poetic justice. But I didn't. I just laughed. That kind of laugh you hear in slasher movies right before the killer revs the chainsaw.

Don't go overboard.

Don't “don't” me. I've swallowed shit for decades. It's time to serve it back, à la carte.

***

Plan B Turns Into Plan Bomb

I thought, fine. If I'm Plan B, then I'll be Plan BOMB. The kind that detonates under everyone's feet. No more polite smiles. No more nodding like a bobblehead. I started telling the truth.

When they called only because their better option bailed, I'd answer: "Congrats, you've activated your spare tire. Warning: I'm flat and full of nails."

When a guy called at 3 a.m., I said: "Buy a doll with batteries. She'll never say no. Hell, she'll never say anything."

When family introduced me as "and here's the other one," I added: "…yeah, like bacteria in yogurt – invisible, but without me the whole thing curdles."

At work, when they said, "You're the backup, always ready,” I shot back, "Backup, yes. But when I blow, the whole building burns."

Even in everyday life, I snapped. At the bakery, when someone tried to cut the line, I snarled: "Not today, sweetheart. I've been waiting thirty years for this spot."

***

The Big Moment

And then came the day I stole the spotlight. Family celebration. Brother won an award, and sister announced her engagement; champagne fizzed like victory foam. And me? Shoved into the corner again, like IKEA furniture nobody assembled.

I stood up, clinked my glass, and said: "Do you know what it's like to be Plan B? To only be called when everything else collapses? To be worse than an elevator that breaks down every time you need it. Well, here I am – your shit, exploding all over you. Cheers!"

Faces drained. Mom frozen. Sister clutching her pearls like she just witnessed Satan. Brother grinning like a malfunctioning robot. And me? I laughed. Not politely, not nervously – I laughed like a villain in a B-movie blowing up the city.

***

Ending – Cancelled

Did I end up alone after that? Of course. But for the first time, I was my own fucking choice. I wasn't a backup. I wasn't ballast. I wasn't wallpaper, duct tape, or a spare tire. I was a bomb. And now, when someone asks: "So, what are you?"

I say: "I'm a former Plan B. And all of you are my Plan C – Cancelled." And fuck, it feels better than anything Plan A ever promised.