Saturday night, Dre (Andrea) hosted up a nice sex toy company-sponsored party that I attended. Hilariously enough, I think I was the most knowledgeable there, although it was my first time seeing certain kinds of vibrators in person (ones with rotating beads and swiveling heads). I disapproved of some of the products being sold–muscle relaxants, vaginal tighteners, and desensitizers–but out of safety concerns. The rest of the stuff was pretty cool.
Anyway, the party was a blast; Dre seemed worried at the small turnout, but I thought it was great, and her sister was a trip. There was that moment, though… that moment where someone was telling a story or expressing disbelief or seemed confused and I chirped up with what little I knew on the topic, where I was put in the Box. The Nerdy Girl Box. Where I’m suddenly “smart” and other people feel dumb in my presence. Where people feel the need to apologize for liking things they think I think are dumb, like music that doesn’t say much, but has a good beat. Where I’m suddenly not-human and incapable of having fun like other people do. Where people–even relative strangers–seem to feel a need to talk more “proper” in my presence.
*thuds head into wall repeatedly*
This is something I’ve fought for years, especially with cousins and often with other buddies. There are some groups with which it’s not much of a problem at all: these are usually people that know me really well. It happens most often, I think, when I’m with people who suspect I’m not a part of their culture, because I don’t quite fit in, no matter how much I believe I span multiple cultures.
If I’m not completely in or immersed in one culture, am I in it at all?
Regardless, I drank a little with Dre and S. later in the evening and learned that I’ve been drinking swill by ingesting Smirnoff. I didn’t think the word “smooth” could be applied to vodka, but the Belvedire I had last night proved me wrong. Decent stuff, as far as booze goes.
