I’ve met all ilk of girls at this point in my life; Girls with accents, girls without. Girls with bosoms that would suffocate a baby. Girls with (or without?) bosoms that could malnourish a baby. Girls with incisor gaps that smite you. Straight tomboys. Gay ones too. Crazy girls that fall in love after you’ve said hi to them. Girls that never fall in love. Girls with daddy issues and prefer older men (these I’ve never met, just heard of them). Girls with natural beauty and booty. Girls with plastic beauty and booty. Girls that like a little pre-coital dalliance and those that prefer getting straight to the point. And girls that like texting but don’t know the difference between ‘I’m’ and ‘am’. I cry every night for this last type by the way. What did they ever do to deserve not knowing the basics of grammar?
All these girls have a power though; a power beyond any man’s capacity. The power I once mentioned (Your Grace) that gave them the bragging rights to claim they run the world. That power that lies in silent treatments, one-word answers, sarcastic ones too, devious smiles and sex deferrals. They’re an enigma we love. It’s why we trim our egos and end up apologizing even when they’re explicitly on the wrong. That power makes us do things. But we adore them.
Last week I started a TV show. Now, if you know me personally you’d know chances of me starting a new TV show are as high as Mudavadi becoming president. But I still started Scandal. You know it, no? The Kerry Washington one? I once tried watching it, I didn’t like it. I thought it was overacted and overrated. So I dumped it. I was already five seasons late and I was sure I’d never catch up. So when I found myself already done with the first season, I couldn’t still believe she had convinced me. Maybe it was because I was trying to get into her bloomers (sex deferrals are real) but I was still in awe. We’d been arguing over petty issues including TV shows (because in relationships it’s always petty issues that then morph into bigger dangerous arguments). Conversations had started to take the same direction all the time.
“What are you up to today?”
“Nothing. I’m just chilling, watching that series you told me about, House Of Cards.”
“Oh…I’m glad you’re watching it.”
“Babe, I know how much it means to you…” She’s being too sweet. Something’s not right. She continues.
“…You started Scandal, the one I’ve been telling you about?”
“No. I haven’t yet got the time, babe.” Your answer the past five months. You threw in the ‘babe’ to soften the blow. You now see why she’s being sweet.
“You always say that.”
“Because it is the truth.”
“I sat through that boring first season of HoC for you and you can’t do the same for me?!” Now it’s not about TV shows if you’ve not noticed yet. Another power they have, everything is a metaphor for your relationship.
“So you watched it to hold it against me?”
I text, half an hour later…
“Are you still there?”
“With the one word answers I could just send you a questionnaire.”
*Blue ticks*. This time permanently. Even the myriad of apologies that followed was subjected to the cruel blue ticking charade. Needless to say, the boat on sex sailed that night. You rush to Steve, the movies guy, and tell him to copy the first two seasons of Scandal that you’ll show to her and maybe make her retract that decision on coitus.