As a follow up to my earlier post about Tanner Foust, here are some shots of the lovely man himself, looking pensive and serious, shot in very deep black and white. Because that's the one adjective you can clearly apply to him. Deep. Or at least you can apply it to me.
And an adorable Instagram picture he tweeted. Why is he so cute?
I won't apologize for my complete lack of shame. I'm not sorry. But look at me. Look at my life, look at my choices. Maybe he'll stop by Firebird Raceway sometime soon and I can abduct him meet him. That would be nice. He'll be charmed by me and my coquettish ways. I'll bat my eyelashes and twirl my fan around and maybe let him get a peek at my ankles. Because I can't flirt. If I lived in a Jane Austen novel or it was the early 1900's, I might be able to snag a man. Unfortunately I am not, and a woman's ability to catch a husband no longer rests with her ability to dance, smile and, in my opinion most importantly, have a good grasp of society, art, music, and the running of a large estate.
Now, and even then, it's based on whether or not her boobs look good shoved nearly up her nostrils. But unlike then, a woman is found attractive if she isn't as smart. No longer is emphasis placed on knowledge. Glittering generalities, or do those awful blonde jokes have a grain of truth to them?
My argument is bolstered by the my father. Every once in a while when I'm creeping on the popular chicks in my school on Facebook (never in person), he'll pop up behind me and make awkward comments like "oh, she's cute." When I lament the fact that God is unfair and despite her having a small waist and a pair of 36Ds, she's as dumb as a post, Dad goes, "no, no, that's all right. Dumb is good." I give him my best "shocked and appalled" face, but he won't be chastised by me.
My observations are also helped along by the amount of teen relationships in my school. Dare we notice who they are all between? The cliche jock and cheerleader/dancer? No! Say it isn't so! The hot guy, who himself is low on the brain wattage, picks the dyed blonde who wear his two favorite colors, short and tight? She laughs at all of his horrendously awful jokes and constantly tells him "I love you, baby, you're my everything." Oh horror! It's true!
Ergo, the best way for me to pick up dudes is to do a complete 180 on my personality and appearance.
Thankfully for me and the rest of the downtrodden female population, deliverance is upon us. We just need more mature men! So far my mother's wise words have been repeated by such reputable sources as Jim Belushi and my best friend's parents. Men don't mentally mature past 8 years of age until they hit about 35-45 years old. Sad, but true.
However my baby Tanner Foust is 38 years old (June 13, 1973, if anybody cares), so I think that he and I will get along perfectly. I'd better work on my giggle though.
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