Somewhere between a 4 and a 10 on the Girly Gurl Spectrum

Last summer my dear friend Emily and I had a debate over who was more of a girly girl. We threw--terribly, because girls can't throw--"insults" back and forth until she said, "Look at your gold lame ballet flats. You win." I dropped the ball, ate a few orange slices, but instead of doing some sort of victory dance, felt instead defeated. I didn't want to be the winner. I spent four years of all girls high school probably being quite girly, but never thinking of myself as a girly girl because there were probably about 20, maybe even 30, girls girlier than I in my class of 48. Granted then, my uniform when not in uniform consisted of dirty Converse and unbelievably soft, but not form-flattering, or revealing, in the least vintage sweatshirts I bought on dirty Haight Street.

I definitely have a more feminine look now. I see that, however, as a sign of maturity and being put together. Or despite the stereotypes, a sluttiness that didn't hit me until after all-girls high school. I do love gold ballet flats, dresses, and according to my friend Alissa "love to showcase my cleave." I also paint my nails frequently, own a fair amount of rom coms (though I am proud to say there isn't a single Julia Roberts flick on my shelves) and I hate spiders. But for some reason, deep down I have never thought of myself as a girly girl. Maybe it's because I am messy. Or because I like beer. And make lots of jokes. And swear kind of a lot. And sit like a boy sometimes. And like politics. And some sports. And camping. My favorite color is royal blue. I love beer actually. I can go to bed with dirty feet. I hate the song "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" and the movie "Pretty Woman." And "My Best Friend's Wedding." This list could go on and on. Emily heard it all.

Today, however, within the course of just a few hours, it really hit me: I am a girly girl. Here's the train of events: I struggled to carry my laundry basket down my stairs. My laundry basket is bright pink. I packed an US Weekly to take to the laundromat. I spent the whole hour doing laundry on the phone with my BFF. I only got off the phone with her because I ran into Jocelyn and her puppy and had to flip out over her cuteness even though we've spent the last three days together (the pupster, not Joce, though she's pretty damn cute, too). When Joce asked what I was doing tonight, I responded, "Going to my coworker's to drink wine and watch 27 Dresses." I came home with my laundry basket. Had another long phone conversation while I made myself a salad for dinner. I put on sweats and UGGS (I know, this is getting embarassing) and walked to my coworkers to watch the movie, talking only to comment on Marsden's dreaminess and Heigl's adorable skirts. I limited myself to a glass and a half of wine.

But, now I'm home, UGGS off, and thinking about channel surfing and having a beer instead of folding my laundry.

So, middle of the road?

5?
6?
7?
8?

If I say I have BO from this heat, I won't make it to 9 right? Because a girlier girl than I once said "Girls don't sweat, they glisten."

OK fine, I can't contain myself: 3 days until the Sex and the City movie opens!!

Shit, I guess I do lose.