Prepubescent males are too chickenshit to approach lovely lone women reading the current best seller while sipping on trim lattes in cafes. They’d rather sit behind the protective comfort of their laptops and post ads to play nappy fetish games with depressed Goths.
My lovely 17 year old cousin was talking to me about boys yesterday. She’s going through that awkward phase in a young woman’s life where she’s not quite sure if she’s beautiful or desirable simply because she doesn’t have a boyfriend in Junior College, she’s not sure she fits in with the other girls and thinks there’s something wrong with her. We’ve all been there, and for some reason, keep going back there, even in our adult lives. Freggin’ ridiculous.
Anyway, I told her she should put on a frilly dress, strappy heels, touch of blush and a dash of mascara and head to a breezy café with a good, but light, book. “2 in 5 times, you’ll get hit on” I assured her. Her response: “That is so cool, but you know, my parents are being really strict now” (She lives in Singapore).
My response: “I was a pro at getting out of the iron grip. What’s your situation like? On second thoughts, I’m sure you’ll get a chance to spend a few hours by yourself one of these weekends” Screw her parents calling me up and accusing me of their angel’s fall from grace.
But it got me thinking about the last time I met a dashing young man while minding my own business, going about my day. It’s been a really long time, and it definitely hasn’t happened to me living in New Zealand or Australia.
Liz
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