Last night, Boyfriend Kamran and I had a leisurely yakitori dinner complete with watermelon sorbet in his neighborhood to celebrate a law school A that he didn’t expect but wholly deserved. As we walked back up the hill to his apartment, I looked expectantly at my feet like I do every time I wear flip-flops in NYC, waiting for a cockroach to crawl over my bare toes. I told Kam that I saw a cockroach in our gym that morning, and he wondered aloud when cockroach season is. I said it seems to be at the start of summer and the start of winter and concluded that cockroaches must be adverse to extreme weather changes, but he sarcastically derided me and said that surely they’ve evolved enough to handle a little temperature fluxuation what with their ability to withstand nuclear attacks and all. We started talking about how ridiculous it is that instead of adapting, humans just do things like move to Florida when the going gets too rough, and I argued that things would be so much better if we were pigs; our pores wouldn’t leak, so we’d just have to recognise when we were overheating and find a way to cool ourselves down. We talked about redesigning the human body to have an internal coolant system with a refrigeration pump and selling our upgraded version of man at a steep price.
While we were having this discussion, we passed one of the hand-carved Italian stone buildings next to his, where four women were leaning against a low wall and chatting. They were all in their 30s and wore their long, highlighted hair down despite the heat. They had on atrocious heels and clingy dresses, and they sipped from martini glasses in between laughs. They were the exact opposite of us. When our conversation finished, I asked Kamran, “Did you see that?”, and he said, “What, those women trying to reenact ‘Sex and the City’?” And we laughed and laughed about how superior we are.
The thing is–I’m pretty sure this sort of business is going on every night in Manhattan. Kamran and I know that we’re weird, but isn’t everyone else weirded out by how normal they are?
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I dreamt of you last night, Katie Ett.
YES! Tell me more.
I think my brain feared an asplosion if it were to let you speak, let alone get nekkid, so all you did was stare unblinkingly at me with your “Mona Lisa smile” while I described all these people on campus who kindasorta looked like you and how overjoyed I was to pretend I’d be friends with these kindasorta look-alikes, and how I was sooo going to see you in NYC this year, dontchaknow? And and and!
Wait, what? There was a chance that we might get nekkid? Or that just I might get nekkid in an attempt to get you to get nekkid in turn?
So…yes, in case you were wondering, this flurry of comments is my way of avoiding going to sleep by reading old blog entries that I’ve missed.
Anyway, this story reminds me of tonight, when a fratty barista at a downtown coffee shop took 15 minutes to check out these two Sex and the City wannabe chicks who were in line in front of us, and then took less than one minute to check out my friend and I. I turned to my friend as we left and said, “Do you think it ever bothers him that he’s such a cliche?” To which she replied, “I don’t know; does it bother us that we’re bitter fugly cliches?” Touche, friend. Touche.
I really wish there was a male version of barista. Baristo is pretty awesome.
My best friend Tracey and I have this conversation about eight times a day. We’re of the mind that it’s much more important to be interesting than beautiful-by-society’s-standards and that it’s much more important to be interesting looking than thin. But no one else seems to agree.
Anyway, I love your friend.
Well *I* agree with you. I’d rather stand out at the ugly but witty chick than be just another forgettable hot chick. Who does that benefit, other than stupid boys? That would be no one. To pretty, skinny girls, I say: “All you people look the same.”
On another note, I take comfort in the fact that stupid frat dude’s job title pretty much calls him a girl. That must be so insulting to him.