You're So Blah

Months ago at a bar out with my friends, I met a guy who I went out on a date with (dinner and a movie, he paid, talked too much during said movie), and decided there was absolutely no potential there (partially because of the movie-talking), but continued to see him anyway. What, he's got a really good body AND pretty eyes! And I've already discussed how those are my weaknesses.

Well every time I sat down at my computer in an attempt to write something funny or anecdotal about him, I ended up sitting here and getting weirded out by Lady Gaga music videos (Seriously, I love her music, but why does she have to be so weird?). Basically, the kid is not particularly bright and even worse, not particularly interesting in any way, which is why I affectionately refer to him as "Yawn."

Even now, I'm trying to think of something funny Yawn said or did at some point ever, and I really got nothing. This one time he told me that his family business makes neon sign lights. And he's really proud of being from the Mid-west. And he owns the DVD of "The Notebook" because he thinks it's a surefire way to get a girl to sleep with you. Ha, ok that last one was kind of funny, but also sad.

Once again in my defense, he's tall. And has REALLY pretty eyes. And fantastic arms and shoulders. And if he didn't talk at all and was about fifty IQ points higher, he might actually resemble someone worth dating!

Unfortunately, though, I seem to be meeting dullards more than anything else. The only guys who have asked me out in the past couple months have been incredibly generic, nice, blah, white guys. And yes, there is far worse out there in the world.

Far, far worse.
- Like Chad Ocho Cinco.
- And that guy who yelled BAM! and karate-chopped my face any time he said anything he thought was amusing, Shmucks.
- Oh, oh and I can't forget Epic Fail, who made out with another girl next to me on our first date and cried when I said I just wanted to be friends after knowing each other a month.

Yeah that's right. You take a look at those guys and a boring guy who owns "The Notebook" to score with chicks doesn't look so bad anymore, now does he?

So then last weekend I went out to meet a friend of mine from college, G, who is now a lawyer, so I knew the party was going to be an assortment of his law friends. It turned out that I was the only person present who was not a lawyer, which seems like the set up to some sort of joke. But when I asked them hypothetically if I was to get arrested, how quickly they could take care of the situation, all of them told me they were corporate international lawyers, so they couldn't do anything to help and would basically leave me rotting away in a holding cell. Lame.

After listening to a few conversations filled with words I didn't understand, I pulled my friend G aside to ask if there were any single, nice guys that he knew. G and his fiance thought about it, saying that they know so many single girls but so few single guys (story of my life...) when she suddenly said, "Well what about Ohio Guy? And G lit up and said, "Yes Ohio Guy is really nice and he's single; he is really, really a nice guy."

Well it had been quite a while since I heard so many "nice" adjectives peppered into the description of a guy, so I assumed Ohio Guy had to be something special and from across the room looked quite cute, so I let G's fiance introduce the two of us.

Ohio Boy is from Ohio (duh) and actually currently lives in Cleveland right now because he is doing his clerkship there and will return to the city to work at a firm in the middle of 2010, not too far from now. And right up front let me say that G was true to word and Ohio Guy is completely, absolutely, just really nice.

I think the niceness is partly due to growing up in the Mid-west, where they tend to be bred nicer than New Yorkers. But it's also partly due to the fact that he is very, very, very innocent.

The first hint of this was when we got into the cab and he fully strapped himself in in the backseat. In all the years I have lived in New York and climbed in and out of hundreds of cabs, I have never EVER seen someone put their seatbelt on. In the backseat of my friend's cars, I can't remember the last time I wore a seatbelt. It's just baffling behavior. Very safe, very punctilious behavior, but so confusing.

Anyways it just got stranger after the seatbelt act. He then told me he had never drank alcohol before he turned 21 and he celebrated his 21st birthday by having a beer with his parents. One beer. To which my mouth fell open and I asked him what the hell he did during college. Apparently it was a lot of weekends home and movies.

(I, on the other hand, had already puked in a cab from alcohol when I was 15, and spent my freshman year of college taking shots of grain alcohol and Absinthe because it was cheap and potent. I have no idea I was thinking. Oh, to be young and hangover-free again...)

In the midst of me asking questions about when was the first time he had ever gotten drunk and what was that like, he tried to divert me by volunteering the fact that he didn't lose his virginity until he was 23. That's right. TWENTY THREE. He's 27 now which means he has been sexually active for FOUR YEARS.

Curiouser and curiouser...

Now I don't know about you, but that knowledge rocked my world. He finally lost it to some girl when he was drunk. And he admitted he was awful. At this point I obviously stopped picking on him about the drinking and pestered him with questions about his lack of sexual activity until he was clearly uncomfortable and kissed me, pretty much just to shut me up.

Of course, the whole time we were making out all I could think about was how I have been having sex for twice the amount of time that he has, and that I could probably outdrink him on any given day. Which, of course, led to me bursting into a lot of giggles, really sexy I know.

So needless to say, poor Ohio Guy met an obnoxious NY girl on his weekend visiting from Cleveland, she made fun of him all night about his slow social-development, and all he got was a little making out interrupted by laughter and sleep.

What can I say, I'm a great date.

Ohio Guy flew back to Cleveland the next day, and just to prove how ridiculously nice he really is, has already texted me to say he got in and would like to hang out again when he's in town. Any normal guy would already have deleted my phone number and headed for the hills, but no Ohio Guy is not freaked out by my tormenting him and not putting out. He actually wants to make plans to see me again.

Now, this is just me being a bitch, but I feel like even the niceness would get old after a while. I like my people to have a little bit of an edge to them; after all we are in New York.

So while I am definitely not advocating bringing the douchebags back into my life, I am somewhat bored by the amounts of blah I've been encountering lately. Is there a happy medium between fun douchebag and boring nice guy? I mean, they have managed to make an animal hybrid of a lion and leopard, so I definitely think there's hope for me.



(And no, that picture isn't photo-shopped, it's an ACTUAL leopon. What are those crazy scientists going to come up with next?!)

Happy Thanksgiving!

Amen to that!

I plan on stuffing myself to the brim with turkey and stuffing, and hoping that I don't get so drunk at dinner that I puke up my whole dinner before dessert has even been served (two years ago) or wake up the day after with the worst wine hangover I've ever had (three years ago) or find myself in the corner polishing off a bottle of Chardonnay by my lonesome (four years ago).

Obviously, Thanksgiving to me means time with my family, copious amounts of food, and the combination of alcohol and tryptophan leading to either the best night's or worst night's sleep I have all year.

And if that isn't something to be thankful for I really don't know what is...

Do Not Date These Guys

My guilty pleasure is crappy reality TV. I watch it all from the melodramatic contrived crap on MTV like The Hills, The City, The Real World to the almost legitimate talent competitions like Bravo's Top Chef and Former Bravo/Current Lifetime's Project Runway.

And yes, before you ask, it does occupy a great deal of my time and take a great deal of commitment to watch every single season of The Real Housewives of Insert State, County, or City Here. And yes, I am already aware that I should get out more.

But you know what? Watching MTV fake reality TV even though I am probably a decade over its target demographic has given me a wonderful basis for laying out the kind of bitchy girls that exist out in the world that you should not associate with, as well as the guys that you should never, ever date!

And, lucky you, I have decided to share my knowledge with you. So, as follows, the lustrous guys from horrible MTV reality shows that are stereotypes of guys to run far, far away from should you ever have the misfortune of encountering someone like them.

1) The Manipulator, Spencer Pratt from The Hills



I think Spencer Pratt is one of the most reviled reality characters to ever hit the airwaves, which either makes him a genius or just a really, really sleazy dirtbag. Considering I have no evidence for the former and a plethora of proof for the latter, I'm going to go with the sleazebag theory.

He first entered the scene by dating Heidi Montag on the second season of The Hills, back when she still resembled a nice, albeit idiotic, girl from Colorado just trying to make it in LA. Multiple plastic surgeries later, I can only blame Spencer for the transformation she has made into full-on Playboy bimbo, aspiring singer, and butt of jokes all around the world.

But what makes Spencer a Manipulator instead of just a regular old sleazy weirdo, is the shit he has managed to pull in order to coerce her to stay with him, marry him, and break off ties to her friends and family.

First, he made sure she didn't have a friend left in the world after he pressured her into moving out of her pad with ex-bestie Lauren Conrad to move into an arcade room with him. Then he spread sex tape rumors about Lauren Conrad to ensure that Heidi and her could never be friends again.

Next, he sabotaged her job by repeatedly making scenes at "events" for the "PR company" MTV claimed she worked at. She eventually got demoted and permanently screwed up any chances she ever had of having a fake MTV career.

The final denouement occurred when he alienated her family to the point where Heidi's mom was in tears over the prospect of her daughter being attached for life to this vile human being. When Heidi's sister moved onto their couch while trying to find a job in LA, he gave Heidi an ultimatum that it was "him or her sister," because sister was monopolizing the time that he wanted to lounge around on the couch, which resulted in Heidi tossing her sister out on her ass. And I didn't even mention the time he poured tequila shots down Heidi's throat in Mexico so that he could coerce her into eloping with him (knowing that her family would disapprove).

There are some crazy guys out there (read: wife beaters) who can't bear the idea of their girlfriends/wives having a life of their own. And should you ever run into one of these guys, you would be wise to change your e-mail address, phone number, and identity as quickly as you can (think Julia Roberts in Sleeping With the Enemy).

Unfortunately, I think it's too late for Heidi Montag, since she is clearly too stupid to get a grip and reclaim what little bit of a life she once had. But that's ok, because who really ever cared about her anyway?

2) The Douchebag, Freddie Fackelmayer from The City



If Spencer Pratt is representative of the typical LA sleazebag who will do anything to get on TV and "famous," then Freddie Fackelmayer is his East Coast doppelganger, the New York douchebag that thinks he's the hottest shit the city has ever seen and will take any opportunity he can to brag about his summer home in the Hamptons.

Facts:
- He's from Greenwich and uses the word "summer" as a verb as in "We summer in Nantucket!"
- He "works" in real estate.
- He is always immaculately groomed down to his orange fake tan, super white caps, and shiny coif.
- He wears gingham shirts.
- He brought his father on his second date with poor, clueless Whitney Port.
- He dated Whitney despite the fact that he already had a secret girlfriend.
- His uber white teeth against the background of his orange, shiny skin give me nightmares.

Assumptions:
- He probably grooms more than any girl I know, maintaining weekly fake and bake, waxing, teeth-whitening, hair, and manicure appointments.
- He almost definitely wears Lily Pulitzer seersucker suits in the summertime, not only for the perfectly-coordinated family photos in Nantucket.
- He spends his weekends at Ten June ordering bottle service and talking to his friends about how superior and awesome they are since they don't have to order drinks at the bar like those poorer, less-orange folk down below.
- He reeks of Cool Water and, to quoth Jack Donaghy on 30 Rock, "self-tanning cream and teeth whitener."

Unfortunately, most New York girls have made the mistake of dating a typical New York douchebag at least once (in my case, it's been many of a variety!), but if a guy's teeth are that white, I think it's a fair statement to say that you should run as fast you can in the opposite direction. As much fun as it is to say "Fackelmayer," it's definitely not worth the summers in Nantucket you would have to endure while his dad calls his mother "Bunny" and asks the butler to fetch more ice for his 30-year-old scotch.

Plus he might be a vampire...and not the hot kind.

3) The Cheater, Jason Wahler from The Hills/Laguna Beach



Jason Wahler, during two seasons of Laguna Beach, managed to cheat on pretty much every girl he got within a 10-foot distance of. He would cheat on one girl with another, start dating the other one, and then the new girl would actually be shocked when he then (gasp!) cheated on her!

Really? You didn't see that one coming?

But the most blatant of these infidelities happened while he was dating the aforementioned Lauren Conrad. The idiot made out with his ex-girlfriend, Jessica at the backstage of Lauren's fashion show right in front of her. And then lied about it and said, "Well she kissed me Babe..." The nerve! You're on national TV Babe!

I almost have to give him props for his brazen disregard of TV cameras. And logic.

What's truly unfortunate is that even after Lauren did the right thing and tossed his lying ass to the curb, they later reconciled and she forgave him for that whole "cheating right in front of me at my own event" thing, and even went so far as to forgo a dream job opportunity in Paris to shack up with him on the beach for the summer.

(To be fair, that was her own fault. Feminists all over the world screamed at their TV sets that you never choose your crappy boyfriend over your career. At least the feminists that watch The Hills. Ok by feminists, I obviously mean just me. And yes, I have already acknowledged that I get too caught up in this faux melodrama and I need to get out more!)

Not too surprisingly they ended up breaking up after he had a violent outburst that forced her to move apartments. Oh, and he got a DUI and wound up in rehab. He's a real winner, that Jason...

4) The Bad Boy, Justin Bobby from The Hills



He rides a motorcycle. He wears leather. He doesn't know how to shower. He apparently has no concept of what a razor is. You kind of want to force him into a SuperCuts and tell them to lop it off. Everything, you say, I have no idea what his face looks like under all that mess.

And in addition to these totally attractive and redeeming qualities, he is also a total flake! Because his bad boy image entails disappearing for days at a time without contacting you to maintain his mystique (I mean what kind of street cred would he have if he was volunteering at animal shelters in his spare time), meaning that you will be stood up multiple times and he will not respond to your multiple texts/calls, but just expect you to put up with it when he shows back up on your doorstep.

I get the attraction to the bad boy. They look dangerous and hot and like the sex would just be so dirty and awesome you would never look at a bar of soap the same way again. And when they actually do something nice, like break into your apartment to make you dinner or give you a promise ring, it means all that much more than it would coming from a nice guy because you think he's finally reformed and is going to settle down for you.

But it never really works out that way because he never actually changes and you just end up feeling dirty and used and itchy.

So there you go, folks. My comprehensive guide to the guys that MTV and I don't want you to date. Be wary, and for God's sakes, if Freddie Fackelmayer asks if he can blind you with his magically white teeth, JUST SAY NO!

Just Call Me Sloth

As my FORMER friends have pointed out to me, my last blog post was lackluster and anti-climactic. My explanation is that my life has been considerably less exciting as of late, partly due to a nasty cold that lingered for two weeks, a sprained right foot, and a standardized test slash grad school applications.

So aside from ranting to my friends about how the standardized testing system is clearly an elaborate pyramid scheme invented by some greedy psychopath and watching every minute of the World Series, I really haven't been getting out that much.

Therefore, instead of booze and boys being a prevalent part of my existence for the past few weeks, my life has pretty much revolved around:

1) Reruns of 30 Rock. Who knew that Alec Baldwin could be so funny? And that Tracy Morgan could have a real career?



2) The discovery of curry fries, a delightful synergistic combination that I cannot believe I didn't discover years ago. The scarfing down that ensued would make Liz Lemon proud.



3) New vocabulary words. I don't care how much my friends make fun of me. Imbroglio (definition: a complicated and embarrassing situation) is quite possibly my new favorite word in the English language. And no, when you look up the definition in the dictionary, there is NOT a picture of me present. But there really should be...

Also genius, the sentences I came up with to help me memorize vocabulary words, such as:

Truculent (definition: argumentative, belligerent): My friend S tends to be very truculent when people root for a different college football team than her. It scares boys when she gets in their faces and yells at them aggressively in bars.

Punctilious (definition: careful, concerned with precise accordance with the details of codes and convention): Ha, my sister is such a law-abiding citizen she refuses to cross the street unless the light turns green. She once stood at a light that was broken for a full minute after I had crossed; how very punctilious of her!

Impecunious (definition: penniless, poor): Ew, if any dude I meet is impecunious, he is immediately put in the rejection pile

I think I should definitely run an SAT-prep class for teenagers. My vocabulary memorization strategy is the best!

4) Glee. I like everything about it. The hilarious Jane Lynch. The guest appearance by Kristin Chenoweth. The yummy but not particularly bright Corey Monteith (awww honey, girls can't get pregnant from hot tubs). And especially all the music, which I cannot stop listening to.

Glee - Don't Stop Believing

5) Sudafed and Mucinex. The real stuff that I need a pharmacist to give me from behind the counter to prevent people from cooking up crystal meth in barns. I made the mistake of taking the recommended dosage of two pills one day and couldn't understand why I felt so cracked out. I cleaned my entire apartment, including the kitchen and bathroom, and did two loads of laundry, all while talking really fast to myself.

Later, after I made the connection, I contemplated taking three pills the next day to run the marathon. I'm not sure if Mucinex counts as a "performance-enhancing drug," but I guess Andre Agassi would be more qualified to answer that. (Oh, SNAP!)



(Also really hilarious: when I explained to little sister E that I needed to give my driver's license so the pharmacy can track consumer purchases in an attempt to stop people from making crystal meth out of Sudafed, her response was, "I'm confused. Why would someone take Sudafed to get high? What, do they just get really, really decongested? Do they tell their friends, 'Hey, I can breathe so well through my nose now, it's the most amazing thing ever, how clear my sinuses are, you gotta try this!'?")

6) Shopping. Hey, a girl needs a little something to take the edge off when she's sniffly and has been trying to squeeze 26 years of her life into two single-spaced pages. And that is where online shopping and excursions "just to see what's in stores" have saved my mental health.

On a totally unrelated side note, I also learned that when I venture within ten feet of a store, I will inevitably purchase something that I "have to have". I think it's a sickness.

7) More awkward conversations with my father. My parents are going away in the beginning of 2010 and when I asked if they will be back for my birthday in March, my dad responded, "Ooooh, are you still celebrating that? Don't you think you're getting a little too old to tell people that it's your birthday?"

He also complained that I never cook for him (which apparently is some sort of obligation since I'm a daughter and not a son, but don't get me started on that) and when I countered that he hasn't ever cooked for me either he said, "That's not true! I cooked you dinner that one time when your mom had to go somewhere at night. Remember? I made you noodles?"

No, I don't remember - when was this? Oh, that's right, when I was THREE years old. Apparently in the past 26 years my father has cooked for me once and expected me to remember it even though it occurred 23 years ago. He was shocked that I have no recollection of this monumental event.

8) Enjoying the last of the mild autumn weather because as soon as it dips below 30 degrees my natural instinct is to hibernate. That's also my excuse for eating all that curry fries; I am fattening myself up to survive the cruel winter.

One for Trouble, Two for Booze

I think the movie Mean Girls summed it up best when they described Halloween as follows:

"In the regular world, Halloween is when children dress up in costumes and beg for candy. In Girl World, Halloween is the one night a year when a girl can dress like a total slut and no other girls can say anything about it."

What's not totally accurate is that even on Halloween, girls still talk shit about other girls who are dressed sluttier. But in general, since I entered college, the entire point of Halloween has been finding the most revealing outfit I can get away with wearing in public on one night of the year. I think my sophomore year costume took the cake: I dressed as a Victoria's Secret angel, donning only white heels, white fishnet stockings, white boy shorts, a white corset, and wings.

So this year, well before Halloween, the process of finding a slutty costume commenced.

R and I spent a Sunday at the costume store, picking out our costumes. We had decided to go as the Village People; I would be the sailor, R would be the cop, and whenever we walked into a bar we would do the YMCA. Personally, I thought it was a genius idea.

This being Halloween, though, we were obviously going as a slutty sailor and a slutty cop. R was using an old police costume of mine that read "Sergeant Sexy," and fuzzy handcuffs I had gotten as a joke present (really, I swear).

I found a slutty sailor costume at the store that was so short that I was having qualms about wearing it in public, especially since I'd be climbing in and out of cabs all night and had no intentions of pulling a Britney. That is, until I found out girlfriend A had actually purchased her French maid getup at a lingerie store. As in it was meant to be worn as a sexy role-playing costume. Amazing.

So there R and I were, standing at the sock aisle picking out appropriate thigh-high stockings (mine, white with little red bows and metallic anchor charms; R's, black fishnets with tiny handcuff charms) when a random stranger approached us.

He eyed our purchases and said, "Wow, I hope you girls are going out on Halloween with some guys. Big ones. Otherwise you are going to get so harassed."

"Excuse me," I asked.

"I just meant with those costumes, you girls are obviously looking for trouble," he said.

Taking his warning under advisement, we bought S a sexy referee costume. The logic behind this was that she would be able to regulate any trouble in her very official-looking costume. Later, it occurred to R and I that giving the loudest girl we know a whistle probably wasn't the best idea we've ever had.

To take advantage of the whistle, we came up with a plan that every time S blew the whistle, it was a sign to follow the sound and find her. If it was one long chirp, it would mean she had been cornered by some weird dude and was in need of rescuing. Two medium chirps would signal that it was time for shots. And three short chirps, the ultimate, would let us know that she had found attractive guys that we should immediately come flirt with.

In short, one for trouble, two for booze, three for men. Wouldn't want to get those signs confused and commit a foul. Especially since the referee costume didn't come with its own yellow flags...

So all in all, despite the initial concerns, the whistle ended up coming in quite handy and I'm not altogether convinced that we shouldn't all carry them even when it's not Halloween. I think a little whistle-blowing would save a lot of guys from dealing with sore testicles, and me from the legal fees involved in my assault lawsuits.

The Best Laid Plans

It was once wisely pointed out that the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.

(Fun literary trivia: The original quote, "The best laid schemes o' mice an' men / Gang aft agley," was from Robert Burns's poem, To a Mouse, and it was the inspiration for the title of the John Steinbeck classic Of Mice and Men. And yes, I am a literary nerd and proud of it.)

When Burns wrote this, I don't think he was talking about a twenty-something girl in the city with a sprained foot on the verge of getting a cold who was planning on taking the night easy by meeting her friends at a bar to watch some sports and call it an early night. But this is how I have chosen to interpret it anyway.

The PLAN was just to meet my friends for dinner and a little football-and-baseball-watching before heading home early to catch up on sleep and fight off this impending cold.

Granted, this was not one of the best plans I have ever had because the girls and I agreed to meet up at the bar where I had previously made out with the hot bartender in the back room of the bar in front of the wait staff.

He was, therefore, incredibly attentive to us and kept replenishing our free drinks when they were only half empty (half full, whatever), in an attempt to get us to stay longer (and possibly for me to make out with him again).

Despite this excessive alcohol replenishment, I was doing a good job of staying sober and vowing to go home soon.

That is, until a group of rowdy and attractive men with accents entered the bar and sat down next to me.

(Side Note: There are a couple of attributes that make me lose all rationality whatsoever and transform me into a puddle of drool. They consist of:

1) Pretty eyes, especially of the green and blue persuasion.



2) Chin dimples and smile lines. Some people call them crow's feet; I call them George Clooney bedroom eyes.



3) Uniforms. Yes, it is totally cliche, but I'm still harboring that Richard Gere "An Officer and a Gentleman" fantasy.



4) Muscles. I'm not quite sure there's anything sexier than the cut of a man's hip into his lower abs when he is totally ripped.



5) Accents.



That's right. Uh oh.)

So needless to say, I immediately made friends with the group of guys who turned out to be a mixture of Brits and Aussies who live in New York.

They were charmed and amused by my antics after a guy at the bar asked me to dinner and attempted to give me his business card. I pointedly rejected him (in my defense, he was bald AND creepy), and when he continued to insist that I take his card, I finally got so frustrated that I took it from him and tore it up in front of his face before tossing the bits into the trash.

One of the Brits turned to me and said, "I can't believe you just did that. He looked like he was about to cry! Why didn't you just take his card and then throw it out after?"

"Look," I explained, "I don't do bullshit. I'm not going to tell him I'm gonna call, take his card, and then never call. I have no intention of calling him or ever seeing him again because he's a weirdo, so I wasn't going to pretend just for the sake of it. It's not how I operate."

My new British friend just looked at me in awe and said (without a hint of sarcasm), "Wow, it's simply shocking to me that you don't have a boyfriend."

That's right. Shocking. Have I mentioned he's my new bestie?

He then introduced me to his Australian buddy with crinkly blue eyes and a six-pack. That's right - if you had put the kid in a Navy uniform, I probably would've had sex with him right then on top of the bar in front of all of the other patrons. I'm not particularly ashamed to admit that either.

The Aussie proceeded to make me laugh for about the next two hours. As if it wasn't enough to seduce me with his adorable accent, he actually had a sense of humor and intelligence. Ridiculous, right?

Which is how it suddenly became 4AM and I realized that my friends had long since retired to their homes and I was aching for my bed and some Sudafed. I told the boys that as fun as they were, I was in dire need of some sleep. The Aussie then asked me if he could "take me out for a bite to eat and get a peck on the cheek?"

Now, it's a fact that if anyone without an accent asked me for anything resembling a "peck on the cheek," I would be more likely to slap him in the nuts than consent to his request. But for some reason, when this entreaty is made with an accent, it comes off as endearing instead of vomit-inducing.

So yeah, yeah, I let him put me in a cab and gave him a kiss on the cheek and my phone number. After this, I don't think my hot bartender will be such a fan of mine anymore and the free booze isn't going to be flowing my way quite as much as it did before...

Which I can live with. Because I made new friends.

With accents.

Boobies!

Now every girl out there has body insecurities and could probably tell you within five seconds exactly what she would like to change about herself. For most girls, the first answer would probably be weight. Having been fortunate enough to inherit a ridiculously high metabolism from my father, my main area of insecurity is probably the second most popular answer, boobs.

Having been a late bloomer, I didn't develop ANY breasts whatsoever until I was about 17, and even then I was still an A cup. This meant, of course, that I spent years stuffing my bra and then once I was old enough to, doing the more sophisticated version of bra-stuffing, working the Victoria's Secret ultra-padded bras.

(This, of course, led to an embarrassing encounter where I let a guy get to second base with me in the tenth grade and he emerged, confused, with a fistful of tissue paper. After that, I switched to socks.)

Once I was old enough and sick of buying water bras, I contemplated getting a boob job for a while. I even went so far as to get a plastic surgeon reference from my doctor. However, I eventually chickened out because the idea of having voluntary surgery to put something alien into my body was too terrifying for me to reconcile.

Plus, given my luck, I was pretty sure I'd be one of those rare people who had a deathly allergy to silicon. Or one of the implants would pop, and I would have to be rushed to the hospital at the most inconvenient and mortifying time ever, like in the middle of a massive family function. I can almost picture my father's face while his daughter is strapped to the gurney, clutching at her left boob and screaming obscenities...

Plus I really couldn't justify the financial costs. Do you know how many pairs of shoes I could buy with a couple grand? And not only that, I would have had to replace half my wardrobe since there was no way my extra small clothing would accomodate double D's. Seriously, who has that kind of time and money?

So, eventually, I just came to terms with the fact that I would never be considered busty by any means, and embraced the positive aspects of being breastily challenged. It meant that I never had to wear a bra, and I could pull off low-cut and backless styles without looking like a tramp. And that I never had to worry about a guy staring at my chest while talking to me. And I was happy with everything else, so who cared if I had the body of a 12-year old boy, right?

Then, miraculously, about a year ago, for no reason whatsoever, my boobs started to grow and I went up to a C cup. It was obviously noticeable, so I joked with my friends and family that I was a very, VERY late bloomer. Apparently 25 years old was the lucky year I finally hit puberty. It was pretty exciting, and don't worry, my girlfriend R already ran through with me the other changes that might be occurring now that I am a woman.

Other than the awkward conversation where my mom told me my boobs looked bigger and asking me if I had put on weight, the most memorable incident occurred when my friend told me that Goldsomething had asked her if I had gotten a boob job. I confronted him about it and he confirmed it, telling me that "they look really good."

Instead of the natural reaction of being offended, I told him it was the nicest compliment I had ever gotten. And you know what? It was. Totally wrote it down in my journal that night: Dear Diary, Tonight someone thought my boobies were fake! It was the best night ever!

This isn't to say that old insecurities never surface. My breastier friends still joke around that I'm the one with no boobs, but I can laugh along now, instead of wanting to run to the plastic surgeon ASAP.

One night, my guy friend T found out that our other friend had gotten a breast reduction because she had been having back problems. Immediately T went nuts on her and said (to quoth Superbad) that she had slapped God across the face by making her breasts smaller and that he was ridiculously disappointed in her.

To emphasize his point he ranted, "Look at S! She has no boobs! Do you know how much she would kill for boobs? When I become a doctor, I'm going to forgo any fees and give her a boob job because she needs it that badly! And you go around spitting in her face by making yours smaller?!?!"

Instead of running to the bathroom to cry in a stall, as I probably would have ten years ago, I laughed about it. And if you think this is not a big deal, imagine telling a girl that is insecure about her weight that she is fat and anticipate her reaction. Or asking a guy with a small penis why it's so little and does it get any larger (not that I've ever done that). That's right: it was pretty momentous of an occasion.

Am I still jealous of my friends with large boobs? Yes. If T really does offer me free breast augmentation surgery, will I at least consider it? Absolutely. But am I happy for the most part? Count on it.