So, you’ve already read “Knowing
Your League in High School” and “Knowing
Your League in College,” but those aren’t applicable to you. You’re a
sophisticated post-college working woman, with your posh Isaac Mizrahi for
Target business garments. You think you’re better than the high school goblins
and college tramps. Well you’re not. Once again
your metabolism has slowed to a crawl, your ass has expanded, and your
expectations are even higher and more unrealistic.
Let me tell you something, troll. I know you think men should be attracted to
you because you’re a seemingly well-functioning adult. Your apartment, life
plan, running automobile, and suitable job do not make you more attractive.
Those things make men attractive, not you. Let me tell you about a swinging gal
with a fantastic job, an exquisite home, and large bank account. Janet Reno. Do
you see men knocking down her door? No. They’re not coming to yours either. They
are running in the opposite direction. Screaming. Crying. Lighting themselves on
fire.
"I wanted to beat her about her soggy breasts with a copy of
He’s Just Not That Into You."
If your proper grown-up qualities are
supposed to be so alluring, then why did Nicolas Cage marry the
hostess at a crappy Korean restaurant who lived with her parents?
Because he wanted a woman who could properly prepare a splendid dog
meat supper. Just kidding! Because she’s a hot little Asian number
who is thin and doesn’t behave desperately.
But I suppose you need a tale of inappropriate behavior to illustrate my
point.
I had this pseudo-friend from college named Selma. Selma worked at some kind
of office that sold toilet seat covers—Comfy Crappers or something, I really
have no idea. She had a wealth of misplaced confidence and grizzly leg hair.
Selma believed men should flock to her because of her position in life, and
oddly, she was unfazed by her lack of gentleman callers. I didn’t have the heart
to tell her that a Women’s Gender Studies degree did not overshadow her bushy
mustache in the eyes of a potential suitor. Additionally, her shabby-chic Target
furnished apartment did not make up for her drooping arm flesh that flapped in
the wind like the majestic stars and stripes.
Sometimes,
back in the days when I could still stand her, we’d get a drink at a bar near
her office.
“I think I’m going to make a move on Drake at the Christmas party,” she’d say
to me, her mustache glistening in the late afternoon sun. Drake was a handsome,
slightly senior co-worker. I could picture the poor man forcibly straddled on
the copy machine by Selma, who while wearing a mistletoe headband, appeared
strikingly reminiscent to an irate bear in a
When Animals Attack video.
“Oh, has there been an office flirtation?” I asked, struggling to feign
interest.
“We go to lunch sometimes, in a group, but still… I’m going to make the first
move. You can’t trust a man to do anything, ya know?” I wanted to say, “You
mean, you can’t trust him to climb up your fleshy arm flaps into your castle
bedroom as in your romance-novel-esque day dreams?”
In lieu of such cruelty, I asked, “Do you think it’s a good idea to get
involved with a co-worker? You shouldn’t make plop plops where you eat.”
“Yeah… well,” said Selma, ignoring my question entirely, “he has a
girlfriend, I think, but whatever, I don’t know for sure. I like him, and I’m
sure he likes me, but doesn’t want to ruin our friendship.”
Oh, lord, why? Yes Selma, he’s going to leave his girlfriend to lie in a
bubble bath with you surrounded by candles, listen to Sade, and shampoo your
wooly legs.
I wanted to beat her about her soggy breasts with a copy of He’s Just Not
That Into You, but instead sucked down the remainder of my drink and fled
the bar before she had time to launch into a feminist rant.
Selma called me the next day. “So, I asked him out,” followed by a long
pause.
“And? What happened to the
Christmas party move making?” I inquired.
“I didn’t want to wait. He said he’s seeing someone,” Selma said angrily, and
went on to tell me that she spent the entire day MyStalking[i]
Drake’s girlfriend and forwarded me her MySpace page.
“She’s 19!” exclaimed Selma furiously. “She’s in college, and she doesn’t
even have a job! Whatever, Drake can’t handle a strong woman. I hate blondes! No
offense. What does he see in her?”
I don’t know, Selma, perhaps the absence of a mustache and rage issues? Maybe
she shaves her legs and wears makeup? Could it be that she has two eyebrows,
rather than one bushy caterpillar draped across her forehead? I quickly clicked
on “the other woman’s” MySpace. She was a very cute, tiny little blonde, not
unlike the Skipper doll. I got off the phone as quickly as possible, but Selma
called me later that night.
“I sent her a message,” Selma said wickedly.
“What? Why? What did it say?” I asked, contemplating a phone call to the
authorities.
“Just that she should keep an eye on her man ‘cause he’s very flirty with
me.” Selma cackled.
Over the next few months Selma started sending Drake and “Skipper”
frightening emails about her empowered womanhood. She slid further into the
depths of insanity and I spoke to her less and less. Drake eventually sent her
emails to Human Recourses and she was not only fired, but escorted out by
security while the entire Comfy Crappers Empire watched.
Moral of the Story: Grooming and non-desperation are still vital when
finding a mate, even with your
lucrative administrative assistant position and Martha Stewart for K-Mart
brand dish towels. And don’t shit where you sell shitter supplies.
