Tuesday, March 28, 2006
It's A Girl!
Queue the orchestra and put on your party shoes because it’s my birthday. Thirty-three years ago today, I pushed my way into the world. It was a joyous occasion for both of my parents, though my dad admittedly was slightly disappointed. After having my sister, he was desperately hoping for a son. He wanted a little boy to teach how to hit a cross court slice and how to make a flawless lay-up. So when the doctor said, "Congratulations, it's a girl," my dad asked him if he was sure.
Even though I’m technically a female, there are some guy traits I’ve managed to develop over the years. For instance, my dad passes all car magazines my way. In college, he even went so far as to have his secretary mail them north so I could keep current. And I read them. I swear. I can’t tell you what torque is but I can tell you the horsepower on most cars I want to drive or eventually own. To me, automobiles are moving sculptures. With elegant lines and powerful engines, some of them seriously belong in a museum.
I also have a guy’s approach to home living. The first thing I bought for my residence was a television. The stand to put it on was absent for three months. It took my mother, horrified by my squatter's lifestyle, to drag me out to buy one. My second home purchase was a stereo, subwoofer and all. I used paper plates and plastic utensils for months but ate my dinner to the background of some crisp and clear sounds. My residence has come a long way but mostly due to my mother's influence. I’m more comfortable in a Best Buy than a Bad Bath and Beyond and color palates give me a headache. I can walk into Pierre Deux and appreciate the showroom but I'd rather sit down on one of the plush sofas and play on my Palm Pilot until it's time to go.
According to Leslie, I’m also a guy when it comes to sex. Personally, I think I’m just comfortably open about my sexuality. We’re all technically animals in my book so when the lioness within rears her head, I go out hunting for some prey. I have safe sex options in DC and Boston. They’re safe because there’s no exchange of fluids. Phone sex is a girl’s best friend when hormones start to rumble out of control. You don't have to shave or brush your teeth or find a way to mask an unsightly zit. Plus, you can be a total slut without increasing the number of men you’ve slept with. Thanks to phone sex, I’ve had a threesome without having to actually have a threesome. It allows me to be adventurous while still maintaining a certain level of decorum. Just shoot an email and voila, plans are made. When I have a real man on my plate, I indefinitely shelve my men in DC and Boston. I don’t want to date any of these guys. Ever. I’m pretty sure they don’t want to date me either. Sometimes sex has nothing to do with relationships and everything to do with an orgasm.
With all of these non-girl behaviors, I’m still female through and through. Not just because of my genitalia. I melt when a man I like sends me flowers or winks at me from across the room. I think shopping is a form of aerobic exercise and an enjoyable way to kill a Saturday. The idea of spending an hour getting a pedicure and another hour getting a facial makes me smile. A bowl of ice cream makes my happy but curling up naked against a man and resting my cheek on his bare chest makes me happier. In a perfect world, I’d have unlimited funds to buy half of the shoes in the most recent Sak’s catalog and that strand of South Sea pearls I’ve been eyeing since the age of twenty. Then again, I’d easily add a Porsche 911 and Bang & Olufsen sound system to my dream list of superficial possessions.
Before heading out tonight for a big hoorah with friends, I’ll slip into my killer Prada boots, touch up my make-up, spray on some perfume, and knot one of my Italian scarves around my kneck. I’ll swing into the city, stopping off at Anthropologie to pick up two skirts on hold and then run over to Blue Mercury for some Laura Mercier powder I'm running low on. I’ll valet the car at Buddakan, because that’s what dressed up girls do. After indulging in good food paired with some version of a girly pink drink, I’ll kiss everyone goodnight and retrieve my car. With the roadway ahead clear, I'll press the sole of my heeled boot against the pedal, slamming it all the way down and forcing the turbo to kick all the way up. I’ll zoom out from the curb with my right thumb pressing the volume button of the steering wheel up. Way up. If I'm going to be heading into a new year, might as well do it in style.
P.S. You know how you can spend hours making a mix tape and before you print the titles out on a piece of paper, you start to move the song order around so it sounds better? That's my short story. Trying to rework things before posting for all the world, or at least all four of you, to read. Hope to have some if not all of it in an edited but still work-in-progress format by next week. From the bottom of my heart - thank you for being so sincerely interested in a few words a single gal in Philly has spliced together.