trillonious monk

One time I had this party, and not the let’s get drunk kind of party, although those aren’t half bad if you ask me. But I had this party, and it was Girls Only. We didn’t post a sign outside my front door, the kind you’d expect for exclusive club membership. Something serious like felt tip pens or even permanent markers. No, my kind of party was even more obscure. Personal invites only. From my mouth! And so this party, which I suppose if I were to admit the whole truth, nothing but the truth, so help me God, I would say that this party was to commemorate what citizens of the United States of America call Thanksgiving Day. Citizens of the United States of America specially appoint this day so that we might remember that our history books have embellished an entire nation’s birth. We imagine that instead of thousands, or maybe millions, of red-skinned men and women and children with painted cheeks and feathered bands dying ruthlessly by the hands of pasty colonizers, we imagine a hearty feast, an armistice, a peace-loving agreement punctuated by a bloated turkey. On this day, it is particularly important to give thanks for our blessings, because the universe or God or the Spanish king or invisible molecular organisms in space have given us these bodies, these fruits so that we may live full and happy lives.

At my party, the Girls Only party, we gave thanks by saying stuff like, I am thankful for my mom. I am thankful for my health. I am thankful for aesthetic pleasures and half-off discounts. And so on. But then there was this moment, and it was significant because we were females. And females can become very sentimental. Like sometimes, it is not out of the ordinary for females to hug each other very tightly to demonstrate how much they care. In the United States of America, males even shy away from hugging each other very tightly for fear of appearing too feminine. So there we were, counting our blessings, and then it occurred to us that we should go around and say one thing we like about the girl to our left. This was like a game for children, except we were all in our twenties, and we were drinking wine, and it was like something you do at a sleepover party in the nineteen fifties when poodle skirts and Elvis Presley were the thing. We did not mind being sentimental though because we were girls. And it was Thanksgiving Day. And so we dubbed it a good idea. The truth being that I, the Girls Only Party Leader, dubbed it a good idea.

When it got to my turn, meaning that the girl to my right had to say something nice about the girl to her left, which was me, she said: Rachel, I really like your hair. It is so dark and pretty. This was then followed by a collective Aw! and Oooo yeah! and So true, so true! by the other girls sitting around me. It then occurred to me that this was a compliment. Sometimes, because I am a female, I forget how to properly respond to a compliment. The truth being that wired into a female’s cranium is the belief that compliments are nonsense, and compliments must be immediately dismissed. For hair, I thought to myself, was really just a biological part of being human. Long strands of protein units that grow from follicles in our scalps. Filaments of biomaterial, as they say. Hair was just hair, but sometimes, I’ve learned, it is best to remain Silent.

  1. deathbedexistentialism said: Accepting compliments with grace is a dying art. As is accepting thanks.
  2. moustachioed said: You’re so full of shit! Take the damn compliments! We all know you’re bad at embracing and expressing the sincerity in a sincere moment, but you have to work at it! I shake my fist at you!
  3. rachblog posted this