"Why would I spread my legs for that?"
This was the tantalizing snippet of conversation I overheard at dinner last night.
The speaker was one of seven women at a table together, cattycorner from the one where I sat with Chiara and our friends - where I was supposed to be bantering about god knows what. I'm sure my eyes went glassy and my face went slack; I willed all of my blood to my ears and tried to drown out the sounds of a busy restaurant at peak hours. These are the instinctive responses of a machine built by millions of years of evolution to hunt for masturbation material.
Gradually, it became clear that the women in question were talking, in some manner or other, about pregnancy and about visiting the gynecologist.
This is my closing argument in the case I have just decided to accept entitled women have terrible conversations v. no duh.
Or anyway, they don't talk about anything fun when alone together.
Or anyway, they don't when they are near me in a restaurant last night.
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