Hello, blogosphere! 'Tis I, the Mexican Georgie, coming to you live from the heart of Middle-of-nowhere, North England.
As I have miserably failed to have anything extraordinary or disastrous happen to me in the past week, I come to you in an act of desperation to gain your attention by attempting to complain about things that don't actually bother me much. The truth is that I am very happy in Durham, but we all know happiness doesn't sell--or at least that is what Mexican soap operas teach us. Therefore, I must go into the depths of my subconscious and find Ramona Consuelo De la Oca Fuentes.... the villain of my own telenovela. She, of course, is just a catalyst for complaining about random things.
First, I have Bridget Jones Syndrome.
This basically means I am constantly aware of my physical/intellectual deficiencies when compared to the stunning, brilliant English woman. But I make up for it with hilarious commentary, political incorrectness, outrageous situations, and just a whole lot of mental instability.
But on to Bridget Jones Syndrome.
1. British women have either deep, sexy voices or deep yet sweet and melodic voices. How? When I hear myself, it's like I hear any old hag from a fairy tale (seriously, have you heard me laugh? YIKES). But these girls can read the phone book and sound amazing doing it. They have these rich, sophisticated voices--they are interesting women, women who can conquer the world, and they have a British accent.
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| Yes, they are all like Mary and Sybil (and I'm Edith) |
I am like a kid who hit puberty and his voice never quite changed... like it stayed in between. When I get excited I sound like a parrot and when I try to be interesting I sound too manly. Well, just my luck... I will never be a voice-actor, there goes my dream!!
2. They all have legs up to here, twice the length of my legs. This makes a huge difference when buying clothes. Tights, leggings, and those cute manly-looking dressy shoes are not for me---but for long-legged (or, on the rare occasion they are short, slim-legged) people. I cannot find clothes that fit me right in this country. I miss you, JCPenney brands :'(
3. They all know how to bake!!!!!!!!!!!! Seriously, I just learned how to cook like... last week. I don't even know how to use an oven---and all the guys in my flat do. All the desserts I've managed to make have been oven-free, so I'm basically great at pretending. But cake? Oh, gosh, I had to give it up for Lent in order to gain more time to procrastinate and not learn how to bake. Or else, this would be the reaction when I throw a dinner party:
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| I'm feeling very Tina Feyish today. |
You guys don't get it--I'm feminine now, I've reformed. I throw dinner parties and wear mascara and own shoes that are not sneakers. I can't just reveal my true tomboy self... I'm a changed man--errrrr---woman.
4. Femininity. Like the real deal. Like graceful, quirky, and Zoey Deschanelesque. Damn, dudes. DAAAAAAAAAAYUUUUUUMMMM. They don't even need the make-up... it just exudes from them. Meanwhile, I exude masculinity, like a stock character in an Arthur Conan Doyle adventure novel (note to self: stop threatening men with punching them in the face. It really is not leading to anything good). I mean, I trim my beard and remind myself to wear deodorant (most of the time), but I am still struggling with all the dress/skirt requirements. And when I, on a rare occasion, wear a dress, you know I'm wearing shorts underneath. No, I will not say if they are basketball shorts or not. Sorry.
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| Kristen Wiig as Michael Jordan. Or could it be Michael Jordan as a bald Kristen Wigg? |
5. Slim. Healthy. No need to think "hmm... I probably shouldn't eat that taco" (no tacos here, but you get the idea). Like, amazing metabolisms. You know what British food is? FAT AND CARBS! Seriously. Yet everyone seems to be okay. This is going to be my doom! I was told I would lose weight in Europe (and pick up a British accent--and a British guy). None of these have happened. What should I do?
6. Walking brains. Like, I don't know if it's just that the British college system is better (hint: it is) or if I just smoked too much crack during my undergrad--but I'm just never intellectually there. I feel like an average dumb American... and I'm not even American!!!!!!
I feel like Kelly Kapoor: I can talk about the Kimye (???) or the latest Jimmy Kimmel prank or Ellen Degeneres interview, but when we start talking philosophy, theology, literature... I'm done, dudes. And I am doing a master's in literature!!!!! I know I was a late bloomer and started to read when I was super old and stuff, but still. Oh, and this whole not-reading-Lewis/Tolkien/Rowling-thing is really not helping.
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| Dakota Fanning doesn't know what Harry Potter is, either. |
At least Jane Austen is something I can always fall back on, right?
7. Beautiful, abundant hair that naturally falls on its lovely, feminine place. I mean... have you seen my hair? You know how rainy it is in England. I am basically Medusa. I have a bad 'fro. Worse than Gilly:
My hair is more like Mufasa's mane after being trampled by a stampede (too soon?). I mean, on a good day, I can only aspire to have hair like Phyllis and Karen when they got a perm:
8. Not loud, obnoxious, competitive, or politically incorrect. What am I even doing here, you ask? Ah well, I suppose God wanted to spice things up a bit. Or actually help me calm down (and it's not working). I got a little dreadlock of sorts a few weeks ago (I basically wrapped a precious lock of crazy hair with different color threads). If you know me at all, you know that's basically the equivalent of a nose piercing, getting a tattoo, or snorting cocaine.
I'm having a middle-life crises 25 years early. I'm going through manopause. I've gone wild (in a very decent, tame, me manner). Oh, dear.
So there you have it. I clearly am at a disadvantage here. Or am I? I mean, after all, Bridget does get Mark Darcy at the end, you know? And the thing about Mark Darcy is... well, he's Colin Firth.
And I think I'm okay with that. I mean, look at Amy Poelher... she's batshit crazy and she got to make out with Bono.
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| In no way am I attracted to Bono. Eww. Plus he's married and has kids. I was thinking more along the lines of... IDK... |
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