“Something smells good.”

I’m standing on a crowded street in Indianapolis. It’s a humid 83 degrees at night and my friends and I are celebrating her graduation from intrepid medical resident to full-time, fully-licensed M.D. But since we’re from LA, we’re dressed like rock stars in our Forever 21 slut-fits accompanied by their $1700 Gucci shoes and what not. (Apparently, it’s all about accessorizing, but hell if I know that. The only clothing I know is North Face and Marmot.)

The guy had jumped out in front of me to intentionally block my way. His friend surrounded us in the surge of sticky bodies on the sidewalk.

“I think that it must be you.” He smiles into my eyes.

Oh no! He’s flirting with me! I’m terrible at flirting! Okay, so he’s only 23 and I could have given birth to him if I had been even remotely sexually active in high school (I wasn’t) so he’s harmless and nothing’s going to happen but STILL! He’s looking at me as if I’m going to answer! How can I appear WORLDLY, NONCHALANT, DEVIL-MAY-CARE?!

“I think you smell good.” He repeats.

“Who me? Oh no, not me! I smell… like sweat.” (I’ve been dancing all night and I uh, don’t use deodorant because well, I think it’s unnecessary for most people. For old white men over the age of 70 with an excess of armpit hair, yes, definitely, but most people smell fine without. But enough soap box here.)

He gives me a questioning look so to save my ego, I give a crazy smile and throw my head back and laugh because, well, that’s what other girls do and it seems to work for them. When I righted my head, I was woozy. (I think I threw my head back too far.)

“I think you smell like Strawberry Pop Tarts.” He insists.

“Oh stop, those are unhealthy for you.” I retort coyly as my friends exchange worried glances, ‘Oh no! She’s thinks she’s sexy!’

“I LIKE Strawberry Pop Tarts.” he taps my forearm.

“That’s terrible. You’ll develop diabetes!” I strike his arm away as I ‘devil-may-care-ahahaha! laugh’ -it might’ve sounded like a high-pitched heehaw- Whatever it was, my friends took 3 steps AWAY to disassociate us.

By this point, he’s starting to drop behind me, shaking his head in confusion. His friends laugh and shake him by the shoulders.

“What club are you guys going to next?!” he shouts behind me.

Megan Fox, Vanessa Hudgens... I get them confused.

I smile and shrug my shoulders and mouth an “I don’t know!” using as much visual tongue as possible. I do my best impression of Vanessa Hudgens/Megan Fox/Drew Barrymore (in her hey day) blowing goodbye kisses. Look at me! I’m Cougar-rific! Rrrarhr!! Grr grr baby! I conclude with a flourish of the Filipino Eyebrows; a move in which you twitch both your brows up and down many times as if your forehead is having eyebrow epilepsy. It’s like saying, “Hi!” several times on stutter mode. Irresistible to men of all races and religions! Who doesn’t want a woman with facile temples action?!

“Um…” My friend gently urged me with a swift pull of my arm. “You’re embarrassing us.” And we swayed to the opposite direction, like a band of spiders daintily picking their way atop overpriced high-heeled platforms.