Easily influenced, but super freaking bad-ass (the disappointing reality of my life)

The other night I went to go and see Fast & Furious 5.  I know, I KNOW mindless, stupid, unrealistic entertainment (but hellooooo, Paul Walker!) and probably a waste of 15$, but whatever.  Fast & Furious.  Awesome.  I sat there for two hours in my reclining leather chair (new addition to Silvercity, love it) listening to hardcore bitches and huge men talk about gangster stuff… and after seeing enough of the Rock with a beard and Vin Diesle’s Charger I started to get pretty into it.  In fact, the whole time I was in the theater I kept thinking to myself I totally wish I was in my car right now!  I totally want to be going 220 down the highway!  I reeeeally want to be doing donuts in the softball city parking lot!  OMG while I’m at it I reealllly want to rob a casino!  Like Oceans 11! Except with faster more manly cars and an escape Ducati and I’ll also be only 105 pounds with double D’s and i’ll be fluent in Spanish because all the hot chicks are latino!  F ya!  Totally Do-able!  

To put it simply,  I am very easily influenced by intensity.  So I walked out of that theater all shaking my ass and stuff trying to get in touch with my inner latino.  I threw out a couple of bad-bitch head nods and bit my lip a little so it would plump up.  I let my hair go wild and flop around in my eyes and I made sure to straighten my back so that my ta ta’s stood out.   And, let me tell you,  I felt pretty amazing… until I unlocked my car.

Blink Blink Beep. 

You see, when my imagination runs wild I tend to imagine myself into some sort of state that I like to think is influencial enough on the Universe that shit actally manifests in my presence.  To  be 100% honest with you, I thought I was walking out of that theater to find a hot-rod of Dominic Torretto  caliber.  A camaro.  A little Mustang.  An old Firebird with a rusty talegate.  What I didn’t expect was to be immediately flung headfirst back into my sad little good-girl reality.

Blink Blink Beep.

Oh, Hai Smart Car!!!

I don’t know if any of you have ever tried to be bad ass in a Smart Car, but it doesn’t work.  Sure, 80km/hr feels awfully fast when you’re zooming along in a 2 foot by 4 foot UFO, but you look like a bit of a tool.

I should have learned this lesson the time I pulled up to a big truck at a stop light and wanted to gain the attention of the hot tattooed driver.  Inside I was like F ya, he looks like a metal guy, I have Metallica in my cd player and a tattoo on the inside of my arm and my effing belly button pierced, woop, meant to be! He can’t resist this hot shizzz!  On the outside I was a little girl in a pink sundress rolling the window down on my bright blue smart car blasting Enter Sandman.  He laughed at me.  & it was like I had braces all over again.

I don’t care how good that Donna Karan dress makes me feel on date night or the fact that I was about to meet a legitimate outlaw for dinner (who liked my smart car just fine, thankuverymuch), when I zoomed away from that truck when the light turned green I felt like a pre-teen idiot.  I switched the radio back to country.  Put on Strawberry lip smackers.  Curled my pedicured toes.  Snapped my hubba bubba & pouted.

I am not nearly bad-ass enough for myself.

Over the years I’ve accumulated a series of mismatched “bad-ass skills” to combat this issue.  I’ve learned how to gut a fish.  Drive standard.  Change oil & tires.  Shoot a rifle.  Shoot a handgun.  Clean a handgun, take it apart and put it back together.  Ride a motorcycle.  Pick up bad boys.  Chew tobacco.  Hold my liquor.  Rock Daisy Dukes.  Chase away bears.  Drive a speed boat and swear at intoxicated assholes.  All because I have always wanted to be more “bad-ass”.

But here’s the thing.  Throw me in a tent and I’m still going to cry if I hear shuffling outside.  Put me on the back of a Harley and I’m still going to have a panic attack when we reach highway speed and all I have to cling onto is his leather jacker.  Place me in front of a deer and I’m not going to want to kill it.  Pull the E-brake when I’m going 100 and I’m going to pee myself.  Hand me a Colt .45 and I’m still going to have a mini freak-out before I remember how to use it.  Put me in a pair of biker boots and I’m still going to wonder if my outfit is “appropriate”.  Hand me a shot of Jack Daniels and I’m going to make a face before and after taking it.  And at the end of the day, I’m still going to go home to my picket fence, get into pink pajamas and fall asleep watching the Lion King with my cat.

Which is why I’m glad movies like Fast & Furious exist.  Because for two hours I can actually make myself believe that I am one bad-ass, [mister falcon]  bitch.  Without pee-ing myself.

xo & yw