Recently, I found myself having a really passionate conversation with a friend about how learning the clutch on a standard car is like finding the G-spot: once you find where it gets off, you’re golden. There was a moment of silence after this statement, and then he turned and said to me, “Sorry. I forgot you were a girl.”
Welcome to my life. Sometimes I feel like random flashing has to be involved to drive this home. Most girls out there can relate to this fact. We all tend to have large numbers of male friends who, after about three or four months of chilling with us, have started to treat us as one of the guys. It’s nice and all and I’m thrilled that you’re so comfortable with me, but please, guys, don’t forget it: I am a girl.
It’s like this:
Have you ever had a really great conversation with a buddy of yours that left you going, “Wow, if only he were a chick?” Well, ok…maybe not. But that’s what I’m like: a guy friend, but with a 36C chest and a shoe fetish. The only thing you may have to deal with is infrequent PMS and me drooling over your other (cute) guy friends.
So feel free to talk to me about football, cars, beer, or English soccer leagues. Seriously, it’s like verbal stimulation. I love to sit my ass on a couch all Sunday and scream at the game on TV while devouring half my body weight in wings and beer. But then again, I also like to get all dolled up and shop on Saturdays until my debit card is smoking and melting slightly at the corners from being swiped so many times. So you still may have to occasionally indulge me as I try to patiently explain to you why Mark Wahlberg was so much hotter when he was still Marky Mark. I promise in exchange I’ll convincingly pretend listen to you as you go on and on about that actress in that movie who really wasn’t all that hot. It’s wonderfully symbiotic like that.
This may require some re-learning on your behalf, guys. It won’t take much, and over time you’ll begin to find yourself navigating this scary new world in which you recognize me as being female with all the grace of the guy who told me he was just busting my balls and upon me asking, “what balls?” replied, “mine,” without even a moment’s hesitation to process the complexities of female anatomy. Crisis averted. See? It’s that easy. Make today the day that you start treating your girl friends more as girls, and less like one of the guys. Believe me, they’ll appreciate it—that is, until the commercial break is over and the Pats are down by four points yet again. Then, they’ll be just as terrifying as Bob Belichick screaming at his players from the sideline, if not more. Ah, the beauty of duality.
XOXO
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