The Wednesday night before my own personal cotillion, Paul sent me a
vicious, petty e-mail. It read:

Dearest Harriet,

It occurred to me this morning that it has been a long while since you
were regularly in the company of men who might have a shot at seeing
your underpants, so I thought I would enclose a few hints, suggestions
and ground rules for when you get back into the game.

Remember, I do this out of love. Love and boredom. Or just boredom. Whatever.

First off, you must take care of your appearance for the party. To whit:

1. Wear your hair down. And for the love of God, get a blowout thingy
ahead of time so it's not just hanging like a limp brown sheet over
your shoulders.

2. No jeans. I won't let you in if you're in jeans.

3. Or those crappy black Chuck Taylors you've been wearing.

4. Or a hoodie.

5. It's all about the little black dress, missy.

6. And heels. Good heels. I've seen your closet. I know you're in
possession of like 300 pairs of astoundingly good heels. Wear a pair
for once.

7. At least I don't have to lecture you on the merits of eye makeup.
Still, a gentle reminder to actually trowel some on beforehand is
probably called for.

8. Leave your Lisa Loeb nerdette glasses at home. I know you think
they act as your geek marker, signaling to geek boys your vast
knowledge of Star Wars, the Whedonverse and Monty Python, but really
they're just glasses and hide your beautiful, beautiful eyes.
Seriously, your eyes are gorgeous. Men would crawl across coals for
your eyes. Leave the glasses at home.

9. No lipstick. It's never suited you, and I hate the little kissy
marks it leaves on wine glasses.

10. And for God's sake, could you break down and get a manicure for
once? You don't have to get the trashy white tips or anything, but
just a couple of coats of polish? For me? Please?

As for the party, there is only one rule: you must circulate. You are
not allowed to bring your iPod, your laptop, a book, a graphic novel,
magazines, brochures, pamphlets or religious tracks. You must
circulate. You must talk to people. You must be sociable.

Seriously, I'm shelling out a fortune for booze; it's the least you can do.

Now, once my end of the deal is done and you have a boyfriend, I have
a few suggestions for not freaking him out. Because, Harriet? You're
scary. You're scary like a coffee-slurping chest-burster.

So, to that end:

1. Burn all of your grungy underpants. If you burn your grungy
underpants, there won't be a risk of the boys seeing your grungy
underpants. Boys don't need to see grungy underpants. Ever. Replace
said grungy underpants with sexy underpants. You're a girl; you know
where to buy them. Buy them. In bulk.

2. Constantly suck on an Altoid. It's sexy, plus it kills your
ever-present coffee breath.

3. Again with the hair down. I know you. You have it in a bun right
now. Let me tell you, that bun is ugly. It's unflattering. It makes
your face look like a watermelon with eyes and a fivehead. Hair down.

4. Try to keep the outward signs of crazy down to a minimum. Don't
discuss poop. Don't drink coffee in the shower. Don't talk about
drinking coffee in the shower. Don't talk about how much you love
Fountains of Wayne. Don't recite "That Thing You Do" from memory.
Don't give the convoluted back-story of your car. Don't even admit
that you've named your car. Don't be a spaz, like, at all.

5. Actually, just repeat to yourself, "crazy isn't sexy." Say it with
me. "Crazy isn't sexy."

Follow my advice and I think you'll be fine.

Cheerios,
-P.

The e-mail arrived in the middle of my shift and I read through it
twice, my mortification growing. Yes, it was helpful, and yes it was
borne out of years of friendship, and yes, Paul only has my best
interests at heart, but a fivehead? That was just uncalled for.

I should explain about Paul. He's been my closest friend for almost
ten years, which is why he feels like he can address the issue of my
fivehead lightly. This late in the game, he probably thinks insulting
my appearance is his birthright. It's not like I'm going to withhold
sex from him.

It has always been like this, since the day we met as freshman at the
seriously unprestigious University of New Mexico. I had come from the
tiny town of Ruidoso, New Mexico, one of those picturesque burgs where
everybody knew everybody's business. UNM was a revelation to me:
twenty-five thousand students, none of whom knew me as the runty
little nerd who'd rather read a C++ book than go out for cheerleading.

It was liberating and terrifying at the same time. Thank heavens for
Paul. The gods of scheduling had put us in the same set of classes,
from Introduction to Computing Systems to the same section of freshman
composition, and once I figured out he was going to be a familiar
face, I clung like hell.

"Yeah," he said during the second day of our acquaintance. We were
crossing Johnson plaza, going from the student union building to the
anthropology building on the other side of campus. The sun was strong
and I was wearing my beloved bushman's hat to protect my face. "If you
want to continue to hang out, you're going to have to lose the hat."

I rolled my eyes. "I'm not dying of cancer for you," I said. I was
awfully fond of that hat.

"It makes you look like you're setting off for safari instead of
calculus," he said. "I just can't be seen with someone who's that big
a nerd. I have a reputation."

"As what?" I asked reasonably, because at that point I didn't know
Paul Matchett could even have a reputation.

He just gave me a withering glance and told me to lose the hat. I wore
it all four years. I think that sums up the dynamic of our
relationship. He gives me shit, I refuse to listen. Wash. Rinse.
Repeat.

And no, I'm not in love with him. Oh, sure, in the beginning, I thought
I was. Here was a cute guy with long brown hair, blue eyes who liked
hanging out with me. Of course I thought I was in love, even if he
never tried to kiss me or get into my pants. I thought it'd just take
some time. I thought maybe he was shy.

Sad to say, I carried a torch for him for about a year, until I
realized he wasn't going to figure out I was a girl and that really, I
didn't want Paul Matchett as a boyfriend. Upon further reflection, I
understood the crush was just my way of justifying an intense
friendship with an unavailable straight man.

Plus, he really is a horrible boyfriend. I mean, fivehead? I'd
have to dump him.