It’s been said you can’t choose who you fall in love with and equally I’m not sure you can choose who you’re girl crushing on at any given moment. The present object of my affection isn’t a pop star, an international clothing designer, an A-list celebrity or even a so-hot-right-now model. Her name is E Jean and she is an advice columnist for Elle US. In a nutshell, she’s witty and clever and practical and gives great advice.
To prove my point, here are two extracts of her recent advice below…
A GIRLFRIEND IS ALWAYS RIGHT
DEAR E. JEAN: Can you clarify the Girl Code? I’ve been finding myself in some questionable situations over the past couple of years that somehow or other always come down to potential violations of the Girl Code. I may be out of it—I’m 28; you’d think I’d have a clue—but what are the rules among girlfriends? What lines shouldn’t be crossed?
MISS TOTALLY, MY TRUFFLE: A crone of 28 should be too experienced to follow anything called the “Girl Code.” Here’s the BLC—Basic Lady Code: Never hate a woman you’ve never met, never date a friend’s ex, never reveal another female’s secret, never leave an inebriated friend alone at a bar, never invite a friend’s enemy to a party, never dine alone with a friend’s boyfriend (unless it’s his last meal and he’s being shot at dawn).
So much for the elemental stuff; as for those famous “lines” that “shouldn’t be crossed” by girlfriends, here’s the AWC—Advanced Woman Code:
- Never stay silent when a friend is falling for an asshole.
- Never favorite a best friend’s bon mot. Always retweet it.
- Never trust a girlfriend who dates a married man.
- Never refuse to write a recommendation for the offspring of a friend (no matter how big an idiot the kid is).
- Never steal your friend’s thunder at a dinner party—when she’s on, give her room! Pound the table! Bang your glass with a spoon! Laugh the loudest at her story.
- Never give your friend’s business four stars on Yelp. Always give five.
- Never agree when a friend says she’s flabby, baggy, saggy, lumpy, floppy, veiny, squishy, scrawny, etc., etc. Tell her to shut up. Tell her life is too short. Tell her to eat, drink, and be merry.
Never treat other women disrespectfully: It gives men ideas.
SIR, YOU ARE ON A PATH TO ENLIGHTENMENT. DO NOT SCREW IT UP.
DEAR E. JEAN: I can’t even be in the same room with my girlfriend without getting an erection. These past two years with her have been the best of my life. She’s tall, beautiful (on a scale of one to 10, she’s a 12, on a bad day), experienced, intelligent, and wealthy; she drives a fast car; and she makes my guy friends envious. My female friends are intimidated, and when she and I are in bed, I feel like a rock star.
We’re totally loyal to each other, I could never fall out of love with her, and I want us to spend the rest of our lives together, but there’s one catch: I’m a less-than-bottom-level banker with no money and the worst apartment in New York. She’s almost too refined, too funny, too intelligent, too established. Plus, there’s this: I’m 26, and she’s 51.
I’m constantly beaten up by my female friends, who say I should break up with her and date girls my age. That would be like going from Cristal to moonshine. However, children aren’t possible, we wouldn’t be able to grow old together, and these are becoming awkward undercurrents in our all-star relationship. So what the heck do I do? Let the good times roll? Or face that stupid thing called “reality”?
—Happiest Guy in NYC
MR. HAPPY, YOU KNAVE: Yes, hour by hour, week by week, yellow crow’s-feet will creep around the fading eyes and make them horrible. The hair will lose its brightness, the mouth will droop, as the mouths of old people do. There will be the wrinkled throat, the blue-veined hands, and the twisted body—and this, my man, is what’s in store for you as you crawl toward 50.
As for your young gal of 51? She’s obviously a member of the Genetic Marvels Corporation: Miss Julie Christie, President; Miss Tina Turner, Vice President; Miss Rita Moreno, Chief Information Officer; Miss Jane Fonda, Head of Product Development; and Miss Raquel Welch, Director of HR (the Marvels all shot past 70 at about 220 miles per hour). Going on the evidence presented in your letter, I can almost guarantee that at 75 or 80 your girl will still be just sexy as hell. After that, it gets a little chancy. Your jowls may droop, and you’ll have to consider surgery.
In other words, let the good times roll, my dear fellow! (And, yes, that was Oscar Wilde’sThe Picture of Dorian Gray I was riffing on in the opening paragraph.)