The Blonde Theory (10 page)

Startled, I struggled not to laugh and looked at him as blankly as I could manage. I wasn’t exactly sure what the proper dumb-blonde reaction to this kind of information would be. But if he was going to be so bizarrely offensive, I might as well have a little fun with him.

“Wow,” I said, widening my eyes. I feigned ignorance. “You can go all night to the gym? I didn’t even know there were gyms that were open all night!”

Scott looked at me for a moment, startled. Then he shook his head as I tried valiantly not to collapse in laughter.

“No, baby,” he said, sounding frustrated. “In bed. I can go all night in
bed
.”

“You have gym equipment in your bed?” I breathed, struggling my hardest to continue looking completely blank, which was difficult, because it was getting more and more difficult to hold back my laughter. “That is, like, such a great idea. You can work out
and
sleep at the same time! That is
so
smart! I never think of things like that!”

Man, this stuff was coming to me with frightening ease. Perhaps I had missed my calling. Perhaps deep down, I
was
a dumb blonde who just happened to have been more educated than fate had intended.

Then again, perhaps not.

“No, no,” Scott said loudly, starting to look so exasperated that his cheeks were turning pink. He sat up a bit straighter and banged a fist on the table. “I can have
sex
all night!” he clarified loudly.

Thankfully, our waiter chose that moment to arrive with our appetizers, saving me from having to address Scott’s boasts. Of course, he also arrived just in time to hear Scott’s last words and as a result turned an amusing shade of scarlet himself.

“
Mademoiselle,
your
cuisses grenouille,
” he said, pronouncing the name of the dish much better than I had. He set down a tantalizing-looking plate in front of me, garnished with parsley. I pretended not to look too closely at it; I still wasn’t entirely convinced that creating a scene about my food, as Meg had advised, was the best route to take. But it was hard not to think about it and giggle as the
cuisses
swam delicately on my plate.

“And
monsieur,
your
moules à la crème,
” the water said, sweeping in with a delicious-smelling dish of mussels in white wine cream sauce for Scott. “
Bon apétit,
” he added before vanishing, his cheeks still a deep red.

As soon as the waiter left, I made a big show of examining my plate, making sure that Scott was watching me. His face was filled with trepidation as he awaited the inevitable—my dumb-blonde reaction to the dish in front of me.

“Like, what
are
these?” I asked finally, touching the edge of one of my
cuisses,
which were bathed in a delectable-looking sauce of butter, garlic, and chopped parsley. I looked up at Scott in mock disgust. Of course I knew what
cuisses
were. But clearly my dumb-blonde alter ego didn’t.

“Um, that’s the appetizer you ordered, babe,” Scott said nervously. He looked far less comfortable than he had a moment earlier while boasting of his sexual prowess. I looked at him incredulously and then turned my attention back to the plate.

“They look like”—I paused dramatically and poked at the
cuisses
again, lifting half of one up experimentally with my fork—“frog legs,” I concluded with disgust.

Scott just looked at me nervously.

“Are they?” I demanded a bit more loudly, relishing his reaction. He looked so uncomfortable, not exactly the “well-oiled machine” he had just claimed to be. “Are they
frog legs
?” I persisted in a high-pitched squeal.

“Well,” Scott paused, as if considering the question. He cleared his throat. “That depends on your definition of frog legs.”

“What?” I asked, my voice rising an octave (to heights previously unknown to my vocal cords). “What do you mean, my
definition
?” I paused and tried to look both haughty and dumb at the same time, which was no easy feat. And yet somehow, I seemed to be pulling it off. Hurrah for me! “Are they, or are they not, the legs of a frog like Kermit?” I asked, keeping my voice slow and deadly—but still up an octave.

“Um...yes,” Scott finally said meekly, avoiding my gaze while he nervously twisted his napkin into a knot.

“Ewwwwww!” I exclaimed, loudly enough that the diners at the tables around us turned to stare. Ordinarily, I would have been self-conscious, but in slipping into the dumb-blonde persona, I had also apparently checked my embarrassment at the door. For a second, I actually reveled in the liberty of it all. Then I remembered that I was supposed to be freaking out. I pushed my plate dramatically away and stood up.

“This is disgusting,” I said, contorting my face into a mask of repulsion. Heck, I should win an Oscar for this performance. “I can’t believe you would bring me to a place like this,” I continued, putting my hands on my hips angrily and striking a pose that I hoped looked both stupid and defiant. “A place that would...that would”—I drew a big breath, pretending that the words were difficult to say—“that would murder innocent frogs!” I concluded.

Concealing my giggles as sobs, I pushed my chair back from the table as Scott stared at me.

“I’m going to the ladies’ room,” I announced before grabbing my purse and stomping off in the direction of the restrooms.

In the bathroom, I finally allowed myself to giggle, and once I started, I couldn’t stop. I doubled over with peals of laughter, ignoring the woman washing her hands at the sink, who was making no effort to conceal the fact that she was staring at me with blatant disdain. Not that I blamed her. I looked like a complete tramp in my clingy blue dress, and I’d just made a scene that had turned heads all over the restaurant.

I was impressed, frankly, at how well I actually seemed to be doing. Once I had started acting like a dumb blonde, it had started coming more easily to me, helped, no doubt, by the fact that Scott was falling for my act hook, line, and sinker. I was a bit disappointed, actually, to see just how easily he had been convinced—and just how much he seemed to
still
like me, even after my abominable behavior thus far.

But at the same time, this kind of act wasn’t answering any
real
questions for me. Sure, it was evident that as ridiculous as I acted, I could still keep Scott’s interest, because apparently a brainless ditz in a skintight dress has that certain je ne sais quoi. But I couldn’t go through the rest of my life—or even the next two weeks of this Blonde Theory experiment—acting like a space cadet. Besides, I had a hard time believing that most men would be as easily convinced by my bimbo act as Scott was. No, I would have to refocus The Blonde Theory and tone down the stupidity on future dates. But for now, I had to finish out this date with Scott. Well, at least I’d get a decent meal out of it.

I reapplied the hideously pink lipstick Emmie had given me and made my way back to the table, where Scott was gazing at me with concern.

“Are you okay?” he whispered nervously once I sat back down. He looked swiftly from side to side, as if to see if anyone was watching us. Evidently, he expected another explosion. But, I noticed as I looked down at the table, my beautifully sautéed frog legs had been whisked away.

“I’m fine,” I chirped, blinking at him blankly as if I had no idea what he was talking about. “Why?”

“Oh,” he said, looking confused. He obviously didn’t know how to approach me. Not that I could blame him. “Um, our meals should probably be out in a moment,” he finally said helplessly.

“Great!” I bubbled.

By the time our main courses arrived five minutes later—sautéed sea scallops in creamy tarragon sauce for me, and filet mignon in cognac sauce for Scott—he was back on track, bragging like a pro, my frog-leg outburst already apparently forgotten. His resilience was impressive.

Inconceivably, he still seemed to be attracted to me. What an interesting observation: As my normal brainy self, I could act polite and socially acceptable yet still routinely freak guys out. But as a dumb blonde, I could create a huge scene and guys would still apparently come back for more. How odd.

As we made our way through our meals, Scott chatted comfortably about his job, his income, and the fact that he thought he was irresistible to basically all members of the female gender.

“I don’t know what it is,” he said with a forced sigh and a little grin. “But women love me. My patients, my nurses, my office staff, and women I meet out in bars.”

“How nice for you,” I said drily, wondering what he was getting at.

“Obviously, Harper,” he said, “that makes it difficult to choose just one woman to be with. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course,” I said flatly.

“But you, Harper.” He sighed and shook his head at me in what appeared to be wonderment but was probably feigned. “You might just be the one woman who can capture my heart.”

I simply stared at him. I didn’t know what to say. Did he use that line on all the women he went out with? And if so, did they fall for it? Or was he simply using it on me because I had seemed more empty-headed than the rest?

“Um, lucky me,” I said finally, not having to fake the hesitance in my voice. Scott nodded heartily and winked.

“You
are
lucky,” he confirmed. “There are lots of women who would give anything to trade places with you tonight.”

Well, at least he was humble.

“Like, I am so lucky to be here,” I chirped finally, not sure what else to say.

“You are indeed,” he confirmed with a nod and a wink. “Now,” he said, waving his hand to the waiter to indicate that we needed our check. What, no dessert? I’d been craving crème brûlée! “What do you say we go back to my place?”

Ew. Double ew.

“And do what?” I asked blankly, batting my widened eyes although of course I knew
exactly
what he was suggesting.

He smiled patiently. “I don’t know,” he said. “There are
lots
of things to do. I could show you my bedroom...”

He let his voice trail off in a way that was evidently meant to be seductive, then reached across the table to intertwine his fingers through mine.

“Um, won’t the gym equipment in your bed be in the way?” I asked the only thing I could think of. He looked momentarily frustrated.

“No, I told you, I don’t
have
gym equipment in my bed, Harper,” he said, an edge to his voice. I continued to force myself to look at him blankly.

“But you said...” I stopped and let my voice trail off, then shook my head in consternation. “I just get so confused.”

Actually, what was confusing me the most at the moment was that an apparently intelligent man like Scott couldn’t tell he was being duped. He really thought I was this dumb. And he was seemingly growing more interested in me by the moment, apparently not
despite
my stupidity but
because
of it. It was enough to make me want to toss the remainder of my red wine all over him and his perfect suit. But I refrained.

“So, do you want to come home with me?” Scott asked again. Well, you had to give him credit for trying. But really, I was done playing these games. Amused as I was by how easy it was to fool him, it also annoyed me that stupidity would be so appealing to a man who was so educated and successful. He
should
have wanted an intellectual equal, like me. Instead, he was looking to take home an empty-headed floozy.

I thought about my response for a moment, then, without saying anything, reached into my purse to get out enough cash to cover my portion of the dinner. I plunked it on the table, smiled at Scott, and stood up. He looked panicked.

“What...where are you going?” he asked, standing up, too, and looking at me desperately.

“Home,” I said simply. I smiled sweetly at him and prepared to turn away. I was on the verge of blowing my blonde cover.

“But...but we were having such a great time!” he exclaimed, desperation shining in his eyes. “You can’t leave now! Look, I bought you this nice dinner. You have to come home with me.”

“I
have
to?” I inquired sharply, turning to stare at him incredulously.

He shook his head. “I don’t mean
have
to,” he stammered. “Just that you should. You should. You won’t regret it. Besides,” he tried again, “I just took you out to a really nice dinner.”

“I’ve paid my share,” I said softly, letting my real voice shine through for the first time this evening. I looked at Scott long and hard, then smiled again. “Besides, I have some briefs I need to get through tonight so that I can file them in the morning. I’ve had a lovely time, but I have a lot of work to do.”

Scott stared uncomprehendingly.

“Briefs?” he asked finally. “What are you talking about?”

“Legal briefs,” I said nonchalantly. I snapped my purse closed with a tight grin.

“I...I don’t understand,” he said desperately, stepping out from the table and moving in my direction. “You’re a dancer.” I just arched an eyebrow at him. All of a sudden, his face darkened. “Aren’t you?” he asked hesitantly.

“Sure, Scott, I’m a dancer,” I said. I paused and looked him straight in the eye. “And you’re a gentleman.”

It was his turn to look blank.

I looked at him for a second longer, smiled—more to myself than to him—and turned to walk away. I could feel him watching me as I turned the corner out of the dining room and pushed through the doors of Café Le Petit Pont onto the bustling street outside.

Chapter Seven

O
kay, this isn’t going to work,” I groaned to the girls over dinner at Spice Market the next night after recounting my evening with Scott. “It’s too much. Acting like a complete moron isn’t going to help anything. The guys attracted to that kind of thing aren’t my kind of guys at all.”

“But that’s what the whole thing is all about,” Emmie protested, looking hurt. It took me a moment to realize that she probably felt like I was rejecting
her,
since she had “taught” me how to act like a dumb blonde. “Weren’t you convincing?”

“Yes, I was convincing,” I said. I sighed. “That’s the problem, though. If this Blonde Theory experiment is about seeing if my job and my intelligence scare guys, then that’s all I should change, right?”

Three confused faces looked back at me. I took a deep breath.

“Look, I lost it with Scott last night because I was acting
so
stupid, and he still totally ate it up,” I said, trying my best to explain a feeling I couldn’t quite put a finger on. “That’s not going to tell us anything. I would
never
go out with a guy that shallow. The whole thing was just fundamentally off from the beginning.”

“What do you mean?” asked Jill, wrinkling her brow in consternation. Meg and Emmie looked equally confused.

“He was attracted to me because I acted so completely stupid and moronic at the bar,” I said. “Fine, so we’ve already proved that it’s easier to get a date as a dumb blonde than as a lawyer. That wasn’t exactly surprising. But what I really want to know is whether guys will be attracted to me for who I am—as long as who I am isn’t a lawyer or a Harvard grad or anything.”

“So you don’t want to act like a dumb blonde anymore?” Meg asked slowly.

“No, that’s not what I’m saying. Not exactly, anyhow,” I hedged. “I think I’d learn more if I acted like a dumbed-down version of myself rather than a full-out ditz. I mean, this isn’t some crazy chick flick. This is my life.”

The girls stared back at me. Meg reached for a spring roll, and Jill took a delicate bite of her lime noodles. Emmie took a long sip of her kumquat mojito.

“You’re right,” Meg said finally. The other girls nodded thoughtfully. “But,” she continued, “how are you going to meet guys? As you mentioned, it’s harder to meet them when you’re not acting like a blonde ditz.”

“Yeah, it’s not exactly like they’re coming out of the woodwork to ask me out,” I muttered.

We sat in silence for a moment, mulling that over. I took a bite of pepper shrimp and waited for someone to say something to make me feel better. No answer seemed to be forthcoming.

“The Internet!” Emmie exclaimed suddenly, as if the thought had just popped into her head. We all swiveled our heads to look at her.

“What?” I asked as my stomach began to swim uneasily. After all, the three of them had tried to persuade me more than once in the last three years to give Match.com or one of the other sites a try. But I hated the idea. I knew lots of women who loved the ease of meeting men online, but I was still a bit old-fashioned and didn’t quite believe that a lasting connection could begin in cyberspace. Plus, what if one of the partners at my firm somehow saw my profile and knew I was trolling for dates on the Internet? That would be humiliating!

“Internet dating!” Emmie declared triumphantly with a toss of her short blonde curls. “It’s perfect!”

“No, no,” I said quickly, shaking my head. “No, no, no, no.” I looked to Jill and then to Meg, expecting to find some sympathy and support. Instead, they were both nodding enthusiastically. My heart sank.

“It’s actually not a bad idea,” Meg said, nodding sagely.

“It’s not?” I asked skeptically. Because online dating sounded like a
very
bad idea to me.

“No,” she said eagerly. “No, it’s not a bad idea at all. It’s perfect. I think this is it.”

“It... it is?” I asked skeptically.

“Sure!” she exclaimed. “It gives you the chance to flesh out your personality in your dating profile—but without saying that you’re an attorney or that you’re as smart as you are or as successful as you are or anything.”

“So be me, for the most part, but leave out the things I feel drive guys away?” I asked. The three girls nodded enthusiastically.

“That’s the whole purpose of The Blonde Theory, isn’t it?” Meg asked softly. “To see if those are the things that scare guys away? To see if they’re attracted to you for who you are—without all the so-called problems of your success or your intelligence?”

“I guess it is,” I mumbled, feeling a strange blend of deflated and somewhat hopeful. After all, maybe this was the answer. Maybe I could meet guys who were marginally more normal than Scott. It would be a good chance to tone down the stupidity a notch but still attract guys without scaring them away through mention of my job. It was worth a try, I realized resignedly.

For the next half an hour, with Jill taking notes in a pink notebook with her bubbly handwriting (complete with hearts over the i’s), we outlined what we wanted my profile to say. In the end, I was relatively happy with the wording we had come up with; I still sounded like me, but I didn’t sound like a particularly accomplished or successful version of me. It was perfect. Well, as perfect as I could get while lopping off an entire aspect of who I am.

Meg took a cab uptown with me to my apartment. We sat down together, and I entered the information dutifully into NYSoulmate.com, a hot New York dating site that had debuted several months before with a mass advertising campaign in
New York
magazine, the
Times,
and the
Post
.

INTERESTS: I like spending time with my friends, traveling, shopping, talking on the phone, and aerobics.

(Meg had insisted I leave “reading” off the list, because it sounded too intellectual, and of course I’d been smart enough to leave off “chemistry,” “physics,” “particle matter,” and “researching legal precedents” on my own. Oh yes, and in real life, I didn’t
exactly
love aerobics. But it sounded good.)

OCCUPATION: Bartender.

(Meg and I had mulled this over for a while before deciding that “bartender” didn’t sound stupid, but it didn’t necessarily sound intelligent or educated, either. It left it up to potential dates to judge me for themselves without knowing ahead of time that they were going out with someone smart—or not.)

LAST BOOK I READ: I hate reading. Why read when you have a TV?

(Meg had again insisted that I couldn’t sound like I liked to read or do anything intellectual, which just killed me because reading was one of my favorite pastimes. “Isn’t that part of my fundamental personality?” I had argued, trying to convince her to let me put
My Sister’s Keeper
in as the most recent book I had loved. “No way,” Meg had responded firmly. “Too intellectual.”)

ABOUT ME: I totally love to have fun. I like going out with my friends, meeting new people, and having a blast. I don’t have a college degree, and I never did that well in school. I’m more street smart than book smart, I guess.

(I wasn’t crazy about the wording, and it pained me to leave out the entire lawyer side of my personality, but Meg made a strong argument for staying as vague as possible. As for the “admission” that I didn’t have a degree, Meg had insisted that I needed to lay it on the table that I wasn’t very smart if this Blonde Theory was going to work. I argued that nobody was likely to respond to me if I put that in there, but she just shrugged mysteriously and said, “We’ll see.”)

WHO I’D LIKE TO DATE: I’d like to meet guys who want to get to know me, who want to talk, who want to listen to me, who want to go shopping with me, who like to dance, and who want to share some fun experiences. I like guys who have good jobs, are self-confident, know what they want out of life, and want to get to know me, too.

(Well, at least that part was mostly true.)

“Anyhow, I brought my digital camera,” Meg said after we had finished with the profile. “Let’s take your picture to go with the profile, okay? Then I’ve got to get going. Paul is going to start wondering why I’m taking so long getting home.”

For the next five minutes, with the assistance of a can of Aqua Net she had bought at the Duane Reade drugstore outside her office building, Meg teased my hair into heights previously unknown to my head (then again, my normal hairstyle was conservative and slicked-back). Then she insisted that I use the bright pink lipstick Emmie had provided me with, as well as putting too much blush on my cheeks. I reluctantly obliged and added an extra layer of mascara on my own. When I was done, I looked in the mirror and saw a dumb blonde looking back, which I supposed meant I had done my job.

Finally, we went back to the living room, where Meg snapped a series of photos. We uploaded them onto my laptop and chose the best—one where I was staring vacuously off into the distance with a decidedly empty expression on my face. Thankfully, with all the piled-on makeup and teased hair as well as the angle from which the photo was taken, you could barely tell it was me.

We logged on to NYSoulmate.com and uploaded both the photo and the profile Meg had written for me, choosing BlondeBartenderHotti as my screen name. A thought had begun creeping into my mind while we worked, though, and when we were done setting up my profile, I turned hesitantly to Meg.

“Would you mind taking a few more photos of me?” I asked, feeling stupid for even suggesting it.

She tilted her head to the side. “Sure,” she said. “But why? Don’t you like the one we chose?”

“Well, I’m just thinking about it, and it seems like maybe I should put on a
real
profile, too,” I said slowly. “I mean, not that I would ever use an Internet dating site. But just for comparison’s sake, you know? Like, put up a similar photo—without the hair spray and lipstick—and write my
real
bio and see how many hits I get.”

“That’s a great idea!” Meg exclaimed. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of it.”

I shrugged, a bit embarrassed. It wasn’t as if I was going to meet the love of my life on the Internet. But it would be interesting to compare. After all, maybe The Blonde Theory was wrong and I was just meeting the wrong guys. Maybe an equal number of guys would respond well to my
real
profile—complete with horrifying lawyer stats. That would certainly be a relief. It was worth a shot.

I wiped off the lipstick and blush and combed as much of the spray out of my hair as I could, then I returned to the living room, where Meg sat waiting with her digital camera. She took a series of photos, and I chose the one that most closely resembled BlondeBartenderHotti’s photo (for comparison purposes)—just without the overdone makeup, teased hair, and empty expression.

“Need help writing your profile?” Meg asked once we were done with the photo.

“Nah,” I said with a sigh. “I think this is something I have to do myself.”

Meg nodded and stood up to leave.

“Thanks for being a good sport about this, Harper,” she said as we walked toward the front door.

“No, it’s fine,” I said. “I hate to admit it, but I’m kind of enjoying this whole thing. A little bit, at least. It’s kind of interesting to find out what these guys are really thinking. Even if it turns out that they’re just the jerks I always expected they were.”

“Try to keep an open mind,” Meg said sagely.

I hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll try.” We hugged good-bye, then I opened the door to let her out. “Say hi to Paul for me.”

“I will.” With a little wave, Meg was gone down my hall.

I shut the door and walked back to my living room, approaching my laptop with trepidation. I wasn’t crazy about the idea of pouring out my likes, dislikes, and dating desires to strangers on the Internet. But I knew I had to, for the sake of proving or disproving the theory, at least. Anyhow, it wasn’t like I had to actually go out with any of these guys, right?

I got to work and spent the next hour writing a profile for NYSoulmate.com. I chose the user name UptownAttorneyGirl. By eleven thirty, I had finished a profile I was happy with, beginning with: “Wanted: A man who isn’t scared to date a lawyer and wants to have good times with a woman he can carry on thought--provoking conversations with.” I changed my occupation to “attorney” and kept the appearance info the same—it wasn’t like my height, hair color, age, or body shape had changed with my IQ level. And I put a lot of thought into the bio. Finally I had one I was happy with.

INTERESTS: I like spending time with my friends, reading, traveling (especially to Europe), and the occasional shopping trip.

FAVORITE HOT SPOTS: The Union Square Cafe. Spice Market. I like to dance at Manahatta. And I like the Pink Martini.

LAST BOOK I READ: The Lovely Bones: Thought provoking and moving. I loved it.

ABOUT ME: I graduated from a prestigious law school and have a good job as a partner at a big law firm in town. But these things don’t define me. I’m also fun and warm. I’m a good friend. I enjoy going out with my friends, meeting new people, and just relaxing and having fun.

WHO I’D LIKE TO DATE: I’m looking for someone who can look beneath the surface and see me for who I am, and who isn’t intimidated by my job or my education. That’s just one part of me, and I want to find a guy who understands that—and a guy who has lots of dimensions, too. I’d love to meet someone who is open to getting to know me without any preconceived notions or expectations of who I am.

By the time I was done, I felt mentally exhausted in a way I never did after finishing legal briefs. I had just poured out the real me onto some anonymous dating site. I sighed and clicked on the icon to upload the photo and profile. I waited for the little confirmation
beep
telling me that the upload was complete. Then I turned off the computer, got ready for bed, and waited for my social life to take off in cyberspace.

W
HEN
I
GOT
into the office the next morning at seven thirty, the first thing I did was sign on to NYSoulmate.com and check my profiles to see if I had gotten any messages yet. I checked my “real” one first. In less than twelve hours, UptownAttorneyGirl had gotten thirty-one hits and received three messages. I stared at the numbers for a moment, shocked. This was my
real
profile! The one where I said I was me! Hmm, maybe I wasn’t as scary as I’d thought. Maybe I should have tried this Internet dating thing a long time ago. Who knew I was such hot stuff in cyberspace?