They say that in this postmodern world we live in, confusion reigns supreme. Social norms that once dictated the kind of people we should be have been replaced by a barrage of imagery that scatters and distorts our expectations. In the past, it was easy to know what you were supposed to be. Children were children because they weren't adults -- those big people with busy schedules and stock portfolios. Women were women because they weren't men - those brutish characters with hairy chests and a blind spot for emotion and fashion sense. Women are now expected to be breadwinners, but they should still look hot in their corporate casual (see fitness section of the Oprah magazine). Men should make bank as well, but they should spend that bank on expensive kitchen equipment (see "how to make the perfect souffl‚" in Men's Health). If college is supposed to be the launching pad into the real world, then how is a college student supposed to find herself when the world can't even do the same?
Meanwhile, Maronda and I were finding our groove at Pod. There, I could forget about the scary future, which apparently is a bright, posh place that makes cool matchbooks. It had been a double-hard week of school, and I welcomed the double-strong purple martini I was double fisting. Maronda had been seeing Maurice for a couple of months and I was going to be meeting him for the first time. Maurice was an architecture major from Miami who had apparently drafted an impressive blueprint for their new relationship: Maurice listened attentively to Maronda's problems over chamomile tea, loved foreplay, and took her shopping in Rittenhouse on the weekends. Maronda was happy and so I said yes when she suggested I do happy hour at Pod with her boyfriend's best friend, Java.
Maronda and I had been happily stuffing our faces with nachos for an hour before Maurice and Java finally showed up for our double date.
"I'm so sorry," said Maurice. "I just couldn't get my hair to dry right."
"Yeah, well you still look like a hick, and not in that alt-country, trucker chic way," chuckled the skinny little dude in a tank top and pointy boots, who I assumed was my date.
Maronda leaned in close and whispered, "Isn't he hot?" I thought to myself: "hot" is not quite the word I would've chosen, unless she was referring to his the flaming halo that hovered above his head in all its glittery pink fabulousness.
Maurice slid in close to Maronda like the latch on a gold Tiffany necklace and I was left to chat up Java. I offered him some of my nachos, but he rejected the offer, citing irreconcilable calories. I offered him a cigarette -- he rejected that as well, bad for the skin. I tried to offer him small talk about classes, but he just tapped his pointy-toed boots in boredom. To tell you the truth, I was getting pretty bored of this pretty boy, but Maronda and Maurice were getting friskier than two priests in a daycare center. I reached into my bag and pulled out a People magazine, hoping the evening would just go away if I didn't look at it.
"Oh my God, look at Demi Moore, how hot is she?" squealed Java, like a little girl playing peek-a-boo. "Her bone structure is so divine, I could bone her all the way to Barney's."
It was then that I finally saw the Purple Dinosaur in the room: Maurice and Java were metrosexuals. They weren't queens, but kings who watch the Queen Channel, and it was becoming more apparent as time and drinks wore on. Maurice and Maronda began frenching in the booth and I felt Java's well moisturized hand slither up my thigh: "Oh my God, your leg feels so sexy under those Miss Sixty Jeans. What kind of lotion do you use? Is it Clinique?"
I thought to myself, this guy should be checked into a clinic himself. Java had multiple personalities, and they were named Judy, Barbara, Rocky and the Hulk. He and Maurice may have been wearing tights, but underneath they were knights, roaming around the mountain looking for fights. I thought to myself: if this is the new trend for men, then I want to be out of fashion. I may not know where I'm going in life, and I may not even know where I am right now, but I do know that there's one thing I can know and that's that I want to feel like a woman when I'm with a man. How could Java carry me across the threshold when he weighed less than me? How am I supposed to feel pretty when my boyfriend attracts more men than I do? Me Jane, You Tarzan -- and that doesn't mean that you get to wear a leopard-print loin-cloth, Java. I am modern woman, hear me roar.
