I shift uncomfortably on the blue couch as Claire grins inanely at me and the four guys in the room look on in confusion.
Flashback time. Some months back, I had been sitting at home with a group of friends. We were heading out for a night on the tiles, but were being significantly slowed by Claire and her inability to dress herself in less than three hours. She has a system where she tries on every outfit in her wardrobe, before finally deciding on the very first ensemble that she had picked out centuries earlier (which will inevitably be black leather trousers and a halter-top of some hideously bright shade).
Getting back to the point, as we waited for her, we were unwinding, having a few beers and getting acquainted with Pete, my friend Jennifer’s latest squeeze. Minutes passed, and I became increasingly aware that Jennifer was apparently randomly widening her eyes and subtly nodding at Pete. The other women in the room (myself excepted) then began to do the same thing. After about ten minutes of this, Rob busted out laughing. Allegedly not at the faces being pulled, but at the female ability to have a silent conversation that is completely indecipherable to men.
This was news to me. Now, being the type of person that is famous for her lack of cop-on (i.e. the ‘blonde’ factor), it is hardly surprising that I had missed out completely on what appeared to be an integral part of being female. My friends spent the rest of the evening attempting to communicate with me via various wiggles of eyebrows and sly winks.
They failed. For all I could tell, they could have been suggesting that the beer was warm, the guy across the pub was fit, or that my skirt was unfortunately tucked in my knickers. (I pray that if this does ever happen to me, someone will have the sense to tell me in plain, spoken English).
I’m the logical type: I like to be able to understand what the hell someone is trying to say to me, and if this means other women have to resort to speaking in order to get their point across, then so be it. Although, in truth, even the type of female completely uneducated in the ways of the average women (that would be me) couldn’t have failed to correctly interpret the ‘she’s hopeless’ look that passed between my mates after my futile attempt to understand that Claire had taken a fancy to the guy with the tattoo and blonde hair nursing a pint at the bar (go on, just try and translate that into a series of random nods and shrugs).
The point being: Claire has apparently forgotten that I find holding a conversation containing a verbal element the most efficient and easily understood method of passing a message across a room. I can see that she is attempting to communicate silently with me, but I have no idea what her point is. However, I possess at least one aspect of femininity (intuition, a woman’s sixth sense) and a good memory (because it was similar faces pulled by Jennifer that first alerted me to the silent conversing that I was missing out on). This means that I make an educated guess that the widening of eyes and nodding towards the kitchen that Kevin has excused himself into is an inquiry about my opinions of him.
Two minutes later, and Claire is apparently not going to be pacified until I answer her increasingly gargoyle-esque inquisition. I raise an eyebrow, nod at the kitchen and smile knowingly. I am momentarily concerned that I may have inadvertently informed Claire that Nick (annoying blond kid with too much energy) is actually a space invader.
Result! My anxiety dissolves swiftly as Claire smiles smugly in my direction, then returns to flirting with Howie (short Latin guy who has the winking part of silent conversations down pat).
I look around the room, intent on striking up a conversation with someone. Claire and Howie are deep in discussion (although this is a exchange involving Claire and a member of the male gender, so actually involves her leaning forward to reveal as much cleavage as possible and rubbing the thigh of the unfortunate victim).
Next up, Alex (or AJ as we are supposed to call him). He looks like he belongs on my medicine course: skinny and gawky and shy. In addition, he is muttering something under his breath while keeping his eyes glued to the carpet.
Brian is sat on the floor by Alex’s feet, and is singing to himself with his eyes squeezed closed. Moving on…
Nick…well, I’m not sure what he is doing. And I’m not sure I want to know either, as it involves the uttering of phrases such as ‘It was green’ and ‘What happened to the boat after that?’
After careful consideration, I decide that an internal monologue is the
way to go. Talking to yourself may be the first sign of madness, but on
a positive note, at least I’m being quiet about it.
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