Emma Joyce lives in Gorham.

Her calligraphy is tidy, her aprons are charming, her smile shines. She dries and presses dainty flowers to make jewelry and bakes fresh sourdough. The flourishes of her kitchen and garden seem straight from a fairytale.

She is Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, and she is imparting her home lifestyle methods to a woman who can’t precisely remember the last time she showered.

As I watch “With Love, Meghan” on Netflix, the lavender plant I bought on a whim last summer slowly dies. The apples on my counter, picked a month ago, cry, “But you promised you’d eat us right after the orchard.” The Halloween decorations are still up. It’s Nov. 25.

But this morning, dear reader, I am being proactive. I’m assembling my holiday cards! I found photos and updated mailing addresses. My husband printed out labels. As I watch the American duchess whip up some homemade caramelized onion tarts, I grab a stack of envelopes and labels to begin the tedious task of peeling and pressing.

It’s fitting that I’m watching a show about how to create beauty through crafts and cooking. Sure, I use printed labels because my handwriting is atrocious, but I feel like I’m embracing Meghan’s spirit of the personal touch. And, OK, maybe the photo cards did come from a big-box retailer because I got a 60% discount, but I do support boutique stationery stores when I can (just not in bulk).

Will I be whipping up a tart with some puff pastry from my freezer this morning? No, dear reader, I must confess that I have not been blessed with culinary skill. But my focus is on the cards and sending some holiday cheer out into the universe.

I finish all the labels. Success! Now, I’ll just need to swing by the post office for some stamps. I proudly look at the envelopes, marveling at my productivity.

Then, it hits me.

The envelope size. It’s a standard business envelope. The photo cards I ordered are 5-by-7. They gave me the wrong envelopes. The cards do not fit. I repeat: The cards do not fit.

I press pause on the show. Swearing commences. Deep breath in, deep breath out. I take a shower.

As warm water splashes on my head I can’t help but laugh at the irony. She makes everything look so effortless. Even when things seemingly go wrong on her show, the mistakes are cutesy. Meghan has faced mounds of scrutiny and I’m not wanting to add to that. But moments like these remind me just how out of touch influencers are with people like me.

I don’t have a production crew or the wealth of a prince. My 2008 Toyota Corolla needs a new alternator. I wear mismatched socks daily. I burn toast. On television shows, there’s a female archetype known as the “hot mess.” She’s “all over the place” but endearing because she’s hot. Her lipstick is smudged; her clothes are risqué. I’m not a hot mess. I’m a frump mess. I wear sweatpants and lip balm.

The problem with consuming home lifestyle programming from people who are in another tax bracket from me is that it’s aspirational, not practical. As I flip through women’s magazines and scroll Instagram, I’m assured of how easy everything is. Go back to the basics! Cook from scratch, handwrite with love. Fill your home with beauty, but not too much. Minimalism is best.

I glance at the piles of clothes that need to be washed. I contemplate if I should cut out the labels on the incorrect envelopes, so I don’t have to buy more labels. First, though, I need to haggle with the retail worker. I’ll go to the store in a little bit.

I press play on the show.