Alicia Silverstone, if she was goofy, didn’t care much what she wore and was likely to cause small accidents in the course of a conversation.
The Dancing Shrink, because with a degree in psychology, a job as a consulting counsellor and a passion for dance, that’s exactly what she is.
So-called because through 5 years of undergraduate college that’s what she wore. A pair of floral printed purple jeans that she claims to still have lying somewhere. That, neon-coloured T-shirts, mildly Gandhian spectacles and a confused expression. Which completely disguised (or at least gave a passable cover for) the fact that we’re talking about a person with alabaster skin, sharp hazel eyes, soft brown hair and the latent sex appeal of a Greta Garbo. No, seriously.
She’s pole-danced in a club once. And had considered taking up a not-great-paying job in Kashmir to help people. Which tells you of her hidden depths and courage. Oh, and she once told me to my face that I was superficial as hell, which tells you that in terms of frankness at least, like certainly recognizes like…
The point is, she’s the sort of friend who never judges you. About anything. She’s there, a ready ear, shoulder or comfort blanket when you want to whine, cry, bitch about the cruel world in general and in my case, men in particular. Which of course, must’ve come in handy in her shrink avataar. That the shrink avataar intimidated the crap out of most men was an occupational hazard, I suppose.
She’s one of the few women I can talk about sex with without having her blush and go all awkward and uncomfortable on me. She’s the voice of reason, and sometimes of madness that has made me take second chances when I was in two minds. She’s hope and optimism in the never-say-shoo, Labrador puppy kinda way, that makes you sort of believe that things can, against the face of all available evidence, work out.
And in sharp contrast, when the rest of us were oohing-aahing-sighing over the latest rom-com, she would go nuts over disaster movies. Armageddon, Con Air, Twister, you get the drift. “Look! Cute men”, she’d coo. “…who die!”, I’d say. And then she’d nod her head sagely and say, “Exactly.”
But one look at her and you’d never ever guess any of this. Because on the surface of it, PurpleJeans is cursed with being one of the guys. Actually, more like the little sister of one of the guys. The kind men want to throw an arm around and protect from all the mean sons-of-bitches out there. The kind they want to look out for, kid around with, laugh with and drop home with the most honorably platonic intentions ever.
The result being that this 28-year-old girl, who happens to be one of the most beautiful, intelligent, crazy-funny and warm women I know, has never had a boyfriend.
All I can say is this: Boys, you don’t know what you’re missing.