Me Mensan

“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 smart, 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 seems to be making an exception for a pair of balloon breasts in not enough of a pink blouse.

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 Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome were refreshing my drink.

Anyway, enough! I stride right past the two of them and head energetically out to the patio.


When I come to, I am laid out full length on the living room rug surrounded by astonished party goers. I realize I’ve just slammed full tilt into the—closed!—glass patio door.

“Uh,” I say, trying to veer around my bashed brain. I stand up painfully, discover I’m less than a foot away from our visitor and stumble backwards. Then, oh well, might as well. “Me Mensan,” I announce with a flourish that barely misses the blouse. “R-e-a-l smart!”

Now I know that man will never pay any attention to me.