Greetings, ginger ale.
Girl drama: the female tendency to expand the smallest details into a galaxy of significance and possibility. The world hangs on a word. Poetic, really. Questions like "what should I wear" aren't mere vanity; the crossroads of an entire future are in the choice between jeans and a dress. Play it safe in clothes your brother would wear? Or look pretty and tip your hand? The ramifications cycle as mercilessly as Vizzini's dissertation on which cup holds the iocane.
We're crazy, we are. Universes unfold from the tone of an email, the look on a face, the turn of a phrase. Everything is out of proportion. And yet -- women, most often, are the keepers of relationships. We maintain, watch, repair. Isn't it our job to be vigilant?
The bad news for us is that men are oblivious to most of the questions that fascinate us for hours. We'll kill bottles of wine chasing down a shade of meaning that doesn't exist anywhere but our heads. Meanwhile, great novels get written by our better halves, who trust us to let them know when it's time for bed.
But it's in this insane and magical world that women fall in love. Staying out of the fray means developing such a thick skin that flirtation is as dry as a lecture, and passes go right past. Some of the most datable women I know are so sensitive that everything is a pass to them, even a simple "hello."
I was walking with a friend this summer past a couple of men playing football. When we were about two feet away from one of them, he tossed the ball and hit me right in the chest with it. I gave it, and then him, a scathing look and then said "Pardon me" in my most schoolteacherish tone.
My friend started laughing, picked the ball up, and tossed it back to him. With a look of relief, he said "well, at least someone's willing to play with me." Score: Me zero. Pass missed. Ball dropped. But to pick the ball up -- that meant creating a connection that probably wasn't worth the effort. Not to mention the risk that we were just walking in the way ... looking ridiculous. Girl drama is all about looking ridiculous.
I need a version of Westley's iocane tolerance regimen, so that I can swallow girl drama without dying laughing.
And I need to know what to wear tomorrow.
We're crazy, we are. Universes unfold from the tone of an email, the look on a face, the turn of a phrase. Everything is out of proportion. And yet -- women, most often, are the keepers of relationships. We maintain, watch, repair. Isn't it our job to be vigilant?
The bad news for us is that men are oblivious to most of the questions that fascinate us for hours. We'll kill bottles of wine chasing down a shade of meaning that doesn't exist anywhere but our heads. Meanwhile, great novels get written by our better halves, who trust us to let them know when it's time for bed.
But it's in this insane and magical world that women fall in love. Staying out of the fray means developing such a thick skin that flirtation is as dry as a lecture, and passes go right past. Some of the most datable women I know are so sensitive that everything is a pass to them, even a simple "hello."
I was walking with a friend this summer past a couple of men playing football. When we were about two feet away from one of them, he tossed the ball and hit me right in the chest with it. I gave it, and then him, a scathing look and then said "Pardon me" in my most schoolteacherish tone.
My friend started laughing, picked the ball up, and tossed it back to him. With a look of relief, he said "well, at least someone's willing to play with me." Score: Me zero. Pass missed. Ball dropped. But to pick the ball up -- that meant creating a connection that probably wasn't worth the effort. Not to mention the risk that we were just walking in the way ... looking ridiculous. Girl drama is all about looking ridiculous.
I need a version of Westley's iocane tolerance regimen, so that I can swallow girl drama without dying laughing.
And I need to know what to wear tomorrow.
posted by jack despra at
12:20 AM
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