Saturday night. Scene: shite cocktails at the local RSL that has recently decided to vamp it up to entice the young crowd. Cast: four ladies who survived high school together.
Ms. Brains: Smart, articulate, and the first one of us to get married. Other memorable traits include the infamous incident on the first day of high school when she stood up in front of the whole maths class to tell the rest of us buffoons to shut up and "show some respect".
Ms. Simpatico: Lovely, quiet, and rational. She is the best of us - the first person I think of when I feel a rage attack to calm me down.
Ms. Boobs: Hot, cleavage, and it wasn't a surprise when she became the first one of us to get a boyfriend.
And me.
There was always this quiet rivalry between Ms. Boobs and I, as was usually the case between girls who were best friends. The only thing was, she always seemed to beat me in the things that mattered - boys, boys and boys. And it irked me.
The first boy I ever liked, for example. Ms. Brains cornered him in Grade 8 one day.
"You know, Polly likes you, " she said with the subtlety that could only be found in an eighth grader.
"Yeh. But I like Ms. Boobs."
Friggin moron. Although some satisfaction came in Grade 11 when the friggin moron asked me to be his girlfriend. Pretend girlfriend, so that he could throw off the scent on this girl who was stalking him. High school was tough.
So. Saturday night. Ten years later. Cheap cocktails. Four young ladies who survived high school together.
"How's the new guy?" I asked Ms. Boobs.
"I don't know. I think we're not going to last. I plan on breaking it off next week," Ms. Boobs replied. I shook my head; it was like back in high school again, I thought. Ms. Boobs - too many boys chasing after her, and her not realising how good she has with her ridiculously small and unfair waist to boobs ratio.
"So what happened with the old one?" Ms. Brains asked.
"It just didn't work. He wouldn't touch me."
"What? You were doing it right?" I was amazed.
"I could lie there naked next to him and he wouldn't touch me," said Ms. Boobs.
"What?" We exclaimed in disbelief. I mean, she has a ridiculously small and unfair waist to boobs ratio.
"Yeah. He was great at everything. But in the four years we went out, I can count the number of times we did it and the number of times he stuck his tongue down my throat." Ms Boobs recalled, "Ten and ten."
"Are you serious?" we asked.
"Yeah." Ms. Boobs confirmed.
"Oh. That's just fucked. If I was that motherfucker, I'd totally tap that. I mean, you. Like, more than ten times in fucking four years. Bang!" I said, under the influence of alcohol and total disbelief at any hot blooded male's inability to tap that.
I also spent a whole day earlier fueled up on two whole seasons of "Entourage". I thought I was Ari Gold and maybe I could talk sense into the situation if this frigid boy of Ms. Boob's was in front of me.
When I got home tonight, with some quiet satisfaction, I realised that it isn't all about the waist to boob ratio. And I couldn't wait to tell the Boy about how good we have it, despite the tyranny of distance.
Not that it is something to be smug about.
Ms. Brains: Smart, articulate, and the first one of us to get married. Other memorable traits include the infamous incident on the first day of high school when she stood up in front of the whole maths class to tell the rest of us buffoons to shut up and "show some respect".
Ms. Simpatico: Lovely, quiet, and rational. She is the best of us - the first person I think of when I feel a rage attack to calm me down.
Ms. Boobs: Hot, cleavage, and it wasn't a surprise when she became the first one of us to get a boyfriend.
And me.
There was always this quiet rivalry between Ms. Boobs and I, as was usually the case between girls who were best friends. The only thing was, she always seemed to beat me in the things that mattered - boys, boys and boys. And it irked me.
The first boy I ever liked, for example. Ms. Brains cornered him in Grade 8 one day.
"You know, Polly likes you, " she said with the subtlety that could only be found in an eighth grader.
"Yeh. But I like Ms. Boobs."
Friggin moron. Although some satisfaction came in Grade 11 when the friggin moron asked me to be his girlfriend. Pretend girlfriend, so that he could throw off the scent on this girl who was stalking him. High school was tough.
So. Saturday night. Ten years later. Cheap cocktails. Four young ladies who survived high school together.
"How's the new guy?" I asked Ms. Boobs.
"I don't know. I think we're not going to last. I plan on breaking it off next week," Ms. Boobs replied. I shook my head; it was like back in high school again, I thought. Ms. Boobs - too many boys chasing after her, and her not realising how good she has with her ridiculously small and unfair waist to boobs ratio.
"So what happened with the old one?" Ms. Brains asked.
"It just didn't work. He wouldn't touch me."
"What? You were doing it right?" I was amazed.
"I could lie there naked next to him and he wouldn't touch me," said Ms. Boobs.
"What?" We exclaimed in disbelief. I mean, she has a ridiculously small and unfair waist to boobs ratio.
"Yeah. He was great at everything. But in the four years we went out, I can count the number of times we did it and the number of times he stuck his tongue down my throat." Ms Boobs recalled, "Ten and ten."
"Are you serious?" we asked.
"Yeah." Ms. Boobs confirmed.
"Oh. That's just fucked. If I was that motherfucker, I'd totally tap that. I mean, you. Like, more than ten times in fucking four years. Bang!" I said, under the influence of alcohol and total disbelief at any hot blooded male's inability to tap that.
I also spent a whole day earlier fueled up on two whole seasons of "Entourage". I thought I was Ari Gold and maybe I could talk sense into the situation if this frigid boy of Ms. Boob's was in front of me.
When I got home tonight, with some quiet satisfaction, I realised that it isn't all about the waist to boob ratio. And I couldn't wait to tell the Boy about how good we have it, despite the tyranny of distance.
Not that it is something to be smug about.
