The Blonde Theory Read Online Free

scarf, and perfect Upper East Side ivory complexion; Meg with her cocoa-and-cream skin and silky black hair, a perfect product of an African American mother and a Jewish father. And then there was me: blonde, not unattractive, but apparently less appealing to men than a visit to the urologist.
    “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve even so much as kissed a guy?” I asked softly. “I’m pathetic.”
    I wasn’t just whining. I didn’t do that; I hardly ever exaggerated. I think it was the lawyer in me that made me want to tell everything like it was, as if under oath.
    “You’re not pathetic,” Meg said gently. Emmie and Jill nodded, but I just shot them a look. They couldn’t put one past me. I knew pathetic when I saw it. And I saw it every morning when I looked in the mirror.
    The girls were silent for a moment. They exchanged looks and then turned back to me, waiting for me to go on. But I had nothing left to say. I was deflated. I sighed. I didn’t know why I’d even opened my mouth.
    “The right guy will come along,” Meg said finally, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had settled over us. It seemed to be her fallback phrase for me, and I wondered whom she was trying to convince—me or herself. Her forehead was furrowed with concern.
    “Really?” I asked, staring at her in frustration. “When? Where is he? Because the wrong guys aren’t even coming along anymore.”
    As my thirties ticked by with no prospects in sight, I was starting to get just the slightest bit nervous that I had somehow missed the boat.
    “That’s not true,” Jill said, interrupting my self-indulgent self-exploration. “Guys come up to you all the time.”
    “Yeah,” I said softly. “Then they talk to me—or maybe even go out with me a few times—and find out I’ve got a brain in my head, which is apparently horrifying.”
    I swallowed hard and forced a smile, trying to look as if I thought the whole thing was funny. In a way, it was. I mean, weren’t men supposed to be strong and confident and all? So what was it about me that scared them so much? I wasn’t unattractive. I wasn’t unkind. I was actually one of the least demanding women I knew, and I didn’t think I had a diva bone in my body. But apparently men liked to be the breadwinners, the success stories, the financial kings of their relationships. And thanks to my mid-six-figure income, they never would be if they were with me.
    I always knew that the trite phrase
Money doesn’t buy happiness
was true. I just hadn’t realized that money would actually
preclude
all my chances for happiness. Hmph, they didn’t tell you this at Harvard orientation.
    “You don’t scare men,” said Emmie feebly. I looked at her for a moment, waiting for her to continue, but her voice had trailed off, and she looked troubled.
    It was no use. I knew the girls meant well. They always had. I mean, they were my best friends in the world, and I knew they only wanted the best for me. But they didn’t understand how
hard
it was. Dating had always come so easily to them, despite the inevitable hiccup here and there in their love lives. I mean, I knew that dating was a roller coaster, filled with ups and downs. But the coaster of my love life had stalled at the bottom of a loop for years. And despite their best intentions, the girls didn’t know how to get me out of it any more than I did.
    I blamed Peter. Okay, so none of this was
actually
his fault, but I had decided long ago that I would blame him anyhow. He made a good scapegoat. I mean, c’mon, what kind of a guy just walks away one day because his live-in girlfriend gets a promotion and a raise? Why couldn’t he just tell me that with every success I had, he felt just the teensiest bit more emasculated? If I’d known, I wouldn’t have kept talking about the things that made me happy at work. I wouldn’t have invited him to my work parties and let my colleagues talk me up. I mistook his mounting discomfort for