“Sorry,” our young visitor has said three or four times along with “Oh, I don’t think my opinion counts for much” and “I’m not that brainy, really.” This last was in a throaty whisper to the one man at this party I’d really like to communicate with. He’s suave and physically powerful, but he always ignores me in favor of the younger things who gather around him. I’ve noticed he usually picks brainy as well as buxom. He’s making an exception for our visitor’s baloon breasts.
By now, I’ve had it with listening to this woman apologize and decide to take myself and my glass of wine out to the folks on the lawn. I do feel for the woman, though. I’d feel uncertain, too, if I thought I were the stupidest person in the room, even if I had her D cup, even if Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome were refreshing my drink.
Anyway, enough! I stride right past the two of them and head energetically out the patio door.
The next thing I know, I am laid out full length on the living room rug, surrounded by astonished party goers. After a moment, I realize I’ve just slammed full tilt into the—closed!—glass door.
“Well,” I say stupidly, trying to veer around my big bashed brain. I stand up somewhat painfully and turn to our visitor, “Sorry. My opinion probably doesn’t count for much, either, but I do have just enough brain left to say,”—with a flourish—“Me Mensan. R-e-a-l smart!”
Now I know that man will never pay any attention to me.