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Saturday, March 08, 2008

Who's a bigger liar?

Those fifty three year olds who write to "gentlemen's" magazines about the wild and crazy things that have happened to them (in public, with beautiful women) or the thirteen year old girls who write to magazines about their most embarrassing moments? All of those stories are equally implausible and, even more annoying, not even good stories. If you're telling a lie, at least it should be interesting. Or funny.

To the fifty three year old:

No, you did not do the horizontal (or vertical, as the case may be) monkey dance with that stewardess.

And, no, she certainly did not stare at you for the whole flight, before beckoning you to the galley with her sparkly, manicured nail.

And she was too wearing underpants, not that you would know.

And, no, you were not sitting in first class, working on a presentation for your big meeting in L.A. In fact, chances are good that you're marginally employed, if at all.

And, I know you didn't claim this, but you certainly implied it, you are in no way, by any stretch of the imagination, handsome. Not a chance.

And, seriously, couldn't you have done better than that story? It was so boringly obvious.

To the thirteen year old girl:

Yes, you probably do have a crush on that boy in your math class. All thirteen year old girls have a crush on someone. I remember it well. Although I didn't go on an actual date until college, I did go on imaginary dates. Constantly.

That boy, however, is probably not "the cutest guy in your whole school." Or, maybe he is, but trust me, he's not that cute. Study hard and go to a good college. That's where the really cute ones are.

And no, he was not looking at you "flirtatiously" as you walked out of the bathroom. Thirteen year old boys don't look at you flirtatiously, they stare off into space. If you happen to be in that space, it may appear that they are staring at you. But not flirtatiously. That was a lie, wasn't it?

And, heck no, you did not wink at him. You were way too chicken. Ba-baaaaahck!

And, finally, no, you didn't suddenly realize that your skirt was tucked into the back of your tights, underwear or panty hose (does anyone even wear panty hose any more? I'm so out of touch.) No one makes that mistake, unless they are really, really drunk. Were you drunk? Do you really want to put that out there, albeit anonymously, in a national publication? Probably not. Just put it on Facebook, like all the other kids your age.

And, thirteen year old girl, don't feel bad. Every thirteen year old girl wants to have silly stories like that to tell. And cute boys to like. And every thirteen year old girl exaggerates. I once had a major crush on a boy, not that he knew, because I never talked to him. I mean, he and I hung out a lot, in my head, exchanging witty and flirtatious banter, but I wasn't ready to actually talk to him. Then, on our class trip, he sat with some other girl on the bus, a girl who could actually speak to members of the opposite sex. I spent the trip listening to Whitney Houston sing All At Once on my Sony Walkman, on a tape I had recorded from the vinyl album I owned, and trying not to cry. I had made the tape by playing the album on my Fisher-Price record player and holding up the microphone of my parent's old tape recorder. The sound quality was fairly awful, which suited my melancholy mood. The recording method made Whitney sound a little bit like Billie Holiday. You want to know the most pathetic part? I might be exaggerating, because one's brain has a self-protective way of blocking these things out, but I think I made the tape while envisioning listening to it with the cute boy, who would fall madly in love with me on our class trip. Yikes.

Oh, fifty three year old guy? You, sir, are pathetic. Did you think I would have kind words for you, as I did for thirteen year old girl? Nope. She has her whole life in front of her. She can get better and her shyness is actually saving her from the embarrassment of teenage romantic entanglements. You, sir, don't have that kind of time. Depressing, isn't it?

Namasté, y'all!

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