I am not a girly girl.
I’m not girly in the traditional sense of the word as proven by the Great Cookie Meltdown of 2010 and the fact that I have no idea why anyone would ever need a pillow sham or wedding china (What the hell is the point? It just sits there, being fragile and useless. It’s the ceramic equivalent of Heidi Montag).
In that sexy, glamazon sense of the word? Batting less than .0000, sports fans.
Lipliner confuses the shit out of me, I can’t see my collarbones (with the exception of going all Karen Carpenter — what’s a girl got to do to get these suckers to protrude?) and have an almost violent hatred of current fashion trends. I’m looking at you, jeggings. Your stupid name makes you so much worse than you already are.
And because of that, I’ve always felt a little inadequate.
Growing up on a steady diet of pop culture (and delicious, delicious Indian food), you’d think I’d find a kickass double X mentor in the warm and foamy ocean of movies, music and television.
My early formative years were spent watching Blackadder and despite what you might think, British historical satire doesn’t provide much in the way of kickass feminine role models.
Later formative years? Women seemed to be lumped into one of four categories. If you had ovaries — you were either a Carrie, a Charlotte, a Miranda or a Samantha.
And I couldn’t relate.
Charlotte and Miranda? Just…no.
And while I’ve got big hair and I like to write, but I’m no Carrie. Primarily because she makes terrible decisions when it comes to men (dude, you got to play smoochies with Ron Livingston!) and I would stab myself in the carotid with a knockoff Manolo if I was ever that punny.
As for Samantha? Epic veto because I’m not some clapped-out geriatric crawling with STDs and a steamer trunk of emotional issues that manifest in sexual promiscuity.
Angela Chase is but a distant memory and as much as I adore Buffy Summers, I’m absolutely nothing like her, so I’m stuck with these Star-spangled dames (Fine, maybe I lied about the punny).
Then, Liz Lemon shows up on her skateboard, wearing men’s clothes and I find my fictional doppleganger.
– She’s a writer. Just like I aspire/pretend to be.
– She loves pinot grigio and cheese — Last week, I asked Jerry if it was legal to marry a big-ass wheel of chevre. He said no, but I figure that’s because he’s an L2 and they haven’t gotten to that part of law school yet.
– She’s constantly sticking her foot in her mouth and has no sense of personal boundaries — Hitching up your pants to show your boss something on your leg? Did it this past summer. My co-workers were appropriately grossed out.
– She likes when Muppets present at award shows (I don’t trust people who don’t love Muppets)
Above all that, she’s smart.
See, stuff works out for my girl Double L because she figures out a way to deal with the chaos around her. She might not find the most dignified way to resolve the issue, but she never resorts to cheap tricks often employed by cheap tricks.
Which just proves that in order to be successful, you don’t need to be pretty (though, Lemon is totally adorable), poised, graceful or well-connected.
You just need to be smart and willing to work hard.
In short — Liz Lemon is a straight-up nerdy girl and she gives me hope.
And I know there’s gotta be a whole mess of other girls out there like me — girls who are utterly befuddled by false eyelashes, think ironing is a waste of time, know Catwoman’s real name and would rather spend their night on the couch eating hummus and watching a Top Chef marathon than going to a club.
So to the nerdy girls — I raise my glass to you (but not with a cosmo because that shit is over).
You’re the girls who love sandwiches.
You’re the girls who read books. Even if they’re not written by Nicolas Sparks or recommended by Oprah.
You’re the girls who don’t really understand the subtle art of flirting. Actually, you’re the girls who don’t really understand the subtle-as-a-brick-to-the-back-of-the-head art of flirting. And that’s cool because one day, you’ll find the guy or girl who appreciates you.
You’re the girls who are just a little awkward…and OK with that.
You’re the girls who can postulate for hours why Sayid Jarrah’s character was woefully underutilized in the last season of Lost.
You’re the girls who have opinions.
You’re the broads I’d most want to hang out with…and you have no qualms about being referred to as broads.
Anytime you want to make that happen, let me know. I know where we can get awesome cheese.