I’m not what you’d call a girly girl. Sure, I like pedicures and facials and Balinese Spice rubs. I probably have too much pink in my wardrobe. I definitely have too many shoes. I don’t like spiders. And I’ll admit to the ubiquitous collection of fluffy toys, hidden in the spare room.
But I also love camping. Getting my hair wet. Scrambling barefoot over the rocks at Boulders. I’m usually covered in all manner of bruises and scratches. I’ll arm wrestle you (if I think I can take you.) And I’ll try your home made, speed McQueen, downhill, go-cart named Kit II any day of the week.
The point of all this random rambling (I think) is that girls who act girly, who giggle and simper and play thick for their audience, really really piss me off. There is nothing that winds me up faster than an intelligent woman who pretends to be dim. Actually, I’m an equal opportunity ranter. I knew a boy in London who downplayed how bright he was because it didn’t fit with his captain of the cricket team image.
Drives me nuts.
Look, I know I’m not making much sense here. I’m no rocket scientist. (And I’ve been known to let the odd comment slide to avoid a deeply dull discourse.) And I certainly have no problem with endless amounts of lumo-pink fluff. I’m not saying don’t trowel on the war paint. Or haul out those heavenly heels. Or wear those dresses I wish I could fit over my head, let alone my womanly curves. But please, please don’t play brain bimbo. Don’t you feel just a little bit daft, playing the dimwit? Sure, if you actually are a bit short on firing synapses, fair game. But thick for thick’s sake is just silly. Isn’t it?
Whaddever. Hi all.