girls that jam

wherein we discuss my shortcomings as a glamourpuss

There’s something very appealing about a girl that knows how to rock out.

I am not one of those girls, but I do have respect for those that do. The girls that can sing, the girls that can write, the girls that can make your spine do that tingly thing.

I’ve always wanted to do that.

I want to be the girl with the “too-cool” look that makes you want to know her better, that makes her instantly unattainable and unforgettable.

I want to stop the air in the room when I walk in.

I want to be asked to dance by a total stranger because he just “had to.” I want a drink bought for me by the “gentleman at the end of the bar.” I want a door opened for me and a jacket thrown over a puddle for me. I want to get pinned. I want a coming out ball for me.

I want to be the girl “with the most cake.”

Women with a presence. Man, that’s an amazing thing, isn’t it? When you sit back and want to absorb them. You wish they knew who you were, and inside…deep deep inside… you wish their knees would bend for your affection. That they craved you like you crave them. That they find you so intoxicating.

I’ve always wanted to be That Girl.

That Girl knows how to have a man love her. She makes him beg for love. She knows how to have a lover’s fight with style and class and oh-so-much-bitch-factor that even the pets are crying when she makes her perfect, perfect, perfect exit.

That Girl never needs a tissue.

That Girl has her cigarettes lit for her, unless she wants to light them all.

That Girl has a voice that digs at your knees.

That Girl has perfect skin, perfect hair, and a body that makes you blink. She has never thought twice about skinny-dipping, and has never apologized for you seeing her in a swimsuit.

Women hate That Girl, and she never notices. She never notices, because they never ever let on. To hate That Girl is admitting that you are not, and will never be That Girl.

She is strong, except when she wants someone to hold her. She is outspoken, except when she can get someone else to take the blame. She is accused, and she accepts the gossip. As long as they are talking about her somehow, she’s still important. She’s still That Girl.

Maybe you’ve never spoken to That Girl. You just want to look at her. You just want to listen to her. Smell her. Maybe she knows you’re there, maybe she doesn’t. It doesn’t really matter, because you are just watching a part of her world. She seems to almost see you, but then– she looks away.

I will never be That Girl.

And a good part of me doesn’t want to. She has a lot of responsibility. She has to keep making herself remarkable. Watchable. Desirable.

I just have to be funny and pay my rent.

That Girl has to spend lots of money on a night life. I’m broke.

I can eat Chocolate Fudge Brownie Frozen Yogurt in my boxer shorts and Pittsburgh Steelers shirt I swiped from my boyfriend.

That Girl wouldn’t be caught dead in her boyfriend’s shirt.

I could never slap someone. I could never tell a horrible lie. I could never use someone to attain perfection. I could never leave my friends behind. I can hardly leave my cats alone for the weekend.

That Girl has crying fits that are followed by nights of amazing passion. I have crying fits that are followed by hours of splashing cold water on my puffy face, while soaking the sleeve of my flannel pajama in snot with my boyfriend going, “Man, are you okay?”

That Girl never has bad breath. That Girl has never had to leave the room to change a tampon. That Girl has never called a man and hung up when he answered the phone. She has never punished herself after eating a Death By Chocolate.

Or she has never eaten chocolate.

That Girl knows nothing about the internet, except that there maybe a few pages out there about her. That Girl never reads the poems you leave for her.

That Girl is starting to get on my nerves.

I can’t imagine being aware of yourself all the time. I sing “Sesame Street” songs while I’m brushing my teeth. I break into a dance at the line at Taco Cabana if the song moves me. I trip and I fall all the time. That Girl couldn’t do that. But I can.

I’m That Other Girl. And I’m very happy about it. I’m a clumsy, dorky, funny, short girl. No glamour, 100% fun. And although I don’t stop a room when I walk in, chances are they may remember me after I’ve walked out.

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