The upside to not being a bimbo is that you don’t really ever have to deal with the sort of men who want bimbos.
But when you go and put on the ritz and a little self tanner, and you’ve got a whole new range of satellites orbiting you.
On Sat, a friend hopefully mentioned that her date was bringing his roommate, and maybe I’d like him. Five minutes after meeting him, I dubbed him “THAT THING” as in “I can’t believe anyone thinks I’d want THAT THING.” He was tall, dark, handsome, well dressed and bragging about how long he’d been drunk. Since I’m pretty sure he thought “intervention” was a sexual position, I didn’t press the suggestion. He decided that he and I were “two of a kind” and was often overheard asking where I’d gone because I was “hot” and to pronounce that the way he did, try to make it sound like it has no consonants. Various other sorts of dreamy eyed followers were by no means novel or rattling to me, but I’m not used to being able to attract men that shallow. He was oblivious to my mockery but after using him to hail a cab by telling him it was hot the way he danced in the street like that, I wondered if maybe I should sit and have a good long think about whether or not I was becoming THAT GIRL. Misusing my two best assets, my wit and my relative soberity, to pick on a drunk, was no more attractive to the right sort of people than the manhandling that pushup bra was doing to my other two best assets.
I can be better than that.