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of Pam.

      Pam, an attorney, mind you, looked like she made a daily conscious decision to distance herself as much as possible from the thankfully archetypal uber-skinny female lawyer usually portrayed on TV. Now, I’m not saying that Pam was fat. Rather, in an effort to make sure that every male she came in contact with would not even think of treating her like a Twinkie, she had made herself work-asexual. Never mind those micro-mini-skirted suits that the TV lawyers seemed to favor, Pam was determined to furnish her entire career wardrobe from the sales rack at the back of Casual Corner. Thus, Pam owned a lot of brown.

      The perverse flipside of Pam’s determined daytime devotion to a dour dress code was that whenever we went out on the town at night, she always went overboard. She tried too hard. Looking at her was like leapfrogging back in time twenty years to the heyday of all those shows about oil barons with wives who never had to work, instead spending their days beating one another up in the swimming pool. She was the epitome of big hair and shoulder pads and enough sequins to choke Liza Minnelli. She was the exact opposite of Daytime Pam, and it required sunglasses to look at her.

      Oh, and scary makeup. Truly scary-scary makeup.

      I couldn’t tell her, of course. I mean, obviously she thought she was making wise decisions.

      Underneath the neutered daytime version and the vamped-up nighttime version, Pam was average: average height (5’4”), average weight (which, in America, currently equals a size 14), average coloring (neither albino nor African-American), average-average-average. Which wouldn’t be a problem for most people, since, as pointed out previously, average is currently the most desirable thing for any American to be, except that in Pam’s case she wanted to be below average in the daytime and above average in the nighttime and she was mostly a dismal failure at both.

      Oh, and she did have average American breasts—36C—but, coupled with a size 14 waist, as opposed to my own 2/4/6, well, let’s just say that she was of the belief that side-by-side was never a fair way for us to stand.

      If she’d asked me, which she never did, I would have maintained that her failures were caused by being a slouch, both literally and psychologically, while I know she would have insisted that she’d just been cursed with faulty packaging and a low self-image.

      “Take you, for instance, Scarlett,” she’d said the Saturday night following the Saturday night when she’d first shot down Bachelors #1, #2 and #3 like duckpins at the carnival.

      As I looked into yet another mai tai in yet another bar on yet another Saturday night, I thought to myself, I hate it when we take me, for instance. Why can’t we take someone else for a change?

      “If we have to take me,” I said, “can’t we at least take me somewhere exciting for a change?”

      “No.”

      “Oh.”

      “I say ‘no’ so quickly, only because you’ve already had more than your fair share of unearned excitement in your life.”

      “Oh. Right. I had forgotten about that.”

      “Now, now. There’s no need for you to do that ‘oh’ thing you do with me.”

      “Oh. Okay.”

      “You know, Scarlett, I don’t know why you always feel the need to make having a conversation with you so difficult.”

      “Isn’t this the point where, if I were a lawyer like you, like you’re always urging me to be, I’d say to you, ‘Let’s move on’?”

      “Point taken.”

      I attempted a winning smile. “Redirect?”

      “Are you asking for permission to question yourself?” She shook her head. “Honestly, Scarlett, you’re not that good at being a lawyer.”

      “Oh.”

      “You’re doing it again.”

      “Oh.”

      “So cut it out.”

      “Oh, okay.”

      “No. Really. I mean it—cut it out.”

      “Fine. For some real fun, then, why don’t we get back to your ‘Take you, for instance, Scarlett.’ I’m pretty sure that’s a line of discussion I’ll really enjoy.”

      “Be snippy, if you want to. But I meant what I said the other night.”

      “What other night? What thing you said?”

      “When we were out last Saturday night, when all those men—one, two, three—kept hitting on you, when I asked you if you didn’t maybe think the real reason behind all the male attention you receive had something to do with the unfair advantage you have in the looks department.”

      “Oh. That.”

      “Yes. That. Well, what do you think?”

      “I think that I’ve decided to forgive you for bringing it up and for saying it in the first place.”

      “Forgive me?”

      “Yes, you.”

      “Whatever for?”

      “Well, just for starters, the implicit message in your assessment is that I have no merit as a woman in my own right, that no one’s ever wanted to be with me simply because I’m—oh, I don’t know—fun to be with.”

      “Now you’re sounding touchy. I thought you said I was forgiven.”

      “You are. But just because I’ve forgiven you, it doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten what you said. Or what you must have meant by it. I mean, God, Pam, are you actively trying to insult me? Are you trying to instill free-floating feelings of worthlessness in me?”

      “Uh, no.”

      “Then what?”

      “I’m just trying to get you to acknowledge that you were born with an unfair advantage.”

      “How is it unfair, when I had nothing to do with the features I was born with? And I prefer to believe that I—oh, I don’t know—earned whatever I have in life.”

      “How have you earned it? By going to the gym regularly?”

      “No. That’s just how I earned some specific body parts. And, anyway, have you ever noticed how whenever we get into a heated discussion with each other, we always feel the need to verbally italicize key words for emphasis? I mean, are we juvenile or what?”

      “Uh, in answer to your first question, no. And in answer to your second, uh…NO!”

      “OH!”

      “Come on, stop being like this. I’m really trying to have a conversation with you here.”

      “What conversation? You’re basically saying that men only like me because of how I look, that it has nothing to do with whether or not I’m fun, whether or not I’m nice. You don’t think I’m fun? You don’t think I’m nice?”

      She ignored my questions. “Look, if I were to accept the fact that you receive more male attention than I do because of something other than your looks, then where does that leave me? Does that mean that I’m not fun? Does that mean that I’m not nice?”

      I returned her earlier favor by not answering her questions, either. Truth to tell, her questions made me uncomfortable. I mean, she was my Default Best Friend, after all. So what could I tell her? Sure, she could be fun…sometimes. Sometimes, she could even be nice. But she could seldom pull off both at once, and, anyway, they weren’t exactly qualities that radiated from her to such an extent that they could function as a man magnet.

      Still, I thought about what she’d been saying, and not just tonight or the other night, but the message that had pretty much become an undercurrent of our about-the-opposite-sex conversations practically since we’d first met. Truthfully, I couldn’t understand

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