HUMOR · STAGE PIECE
Do you want fries with that?
Written and performed at Written in Brooklyn, August 2025.
—
I’m just going to get right to it: I’m an insecure girlie trapped behind the aura of a Cool Girl.
He’s Just Not That Into You and, like, every Cosmo article published between the sexual revolution and Me Too movement taught us she’s who men want. Available but not too available. Easygoing but not easy. Fun and non-committal – until they’re ready to commit, of course.
And when I say this is taught, I mean that — because Cool Girl is not natural.
Don’t get me wrong: I’m cool as fuck.
But capital “C” Cool Girl? The one who never double texts? Who’s totally chill with you bailing on dinner for the fantasy football draft? Who’s delighted – awestruck even – to wake up to that dick pic?
That version of cool is simply not who I am.
Nope. I am someone who has:
Flaked on girls night so I could “accidentally” run into my situationship at a bar
Ignored breakup flags and credit card debt to surprise a boyfriend with a birthday weekend getaway…only to get dumped en route to the B&B
Risked tetanus below the belt, panic-shaving with a Bic I found in a first date’s medicine cabinet
As emotionally intelligent people in therapy — more commonly referred to as “women” — understand, such displays of insecurity translate pretty directly to a fucked up attachment style. Add in some good ol’ body dysmorphia courtesy of growing up chubby in the early aughts, and it’s a real Molotov cocktail for casual dating.
Thankfully, I learned how to fake cool around the same time I learned how to fake an orgasm. I figured if I couldn’t be the girl who didn’t care, didn’t chase, didn’t need, I could at least pretend long enough to find love.
…
By the time I swiped right on Ben, I had Cool Girl down to muscle memory. I could mention his ex's name without my voice going up an octave, and no longer needed a timer to keep from replying to texts too quickly.
Six months in, I was still holding it together. We had DTR’d and were mutually and frequently DTF, so by all accounts, things were solid. On our first date, Ben told me when he meets someone he likes, he’s a one-woman guy. On our third date, he declared that he wanted me to be that one woman, but understood if I needed more time before I was ready to commit. I deleted my Hinge profile before date four.
Thursdays were our date nights. This particular Thursday, we’re walking to our favorite restaurant to eat our 3rd-favorite cheeseburger, when somehow, the topic of a hall pass list comes up. Immediately, my hackles are up…which would make a lot more sense if I wasn’t the one who had brought it up.
There’s no way Ben can win. He names someone unattainably hot, I’ll spiral, comparing our body parts and updating my plastic surgery vision board. Or, he could humble me with an average looking chick. If the bar’s that low in his goddamn imagination, I’m scared to know where it sits for his IRL girlfriend.
And then the big reveal: Dua Lipa.
Cool Girl should endorse his pick. “Dude, solid choice, she’s a smoke.” But inside, I’m wounded. I can’t begin to compete with Dua Lipa. She’s genetically blessed in ways science can’t explain: abs you could grate cheese on, legs that go on for geological time periods, brows that have never known the violence of a Benefit Brow Bar.
And she reads... books… recreationally.
“Oh….nice.”
Immediately conscious of my posture and lacking jawline, I straighten up and start mewing — a term I won’t learn for another year and hundreds of hours of TikTok later. He doesn’t know it yet, but Ben just shared something that’s about to ruin not only our evening, but his J. Crew button-down.
We reach the restaurant. Ben holds the door for me like a gentleman. Physically, I walk inside. Emotionally, I’m on a downward trajectory.
I attempt a mental pep talk: “Girl, chill. Everyone has a hall pass list. Being horny for Bad Bunny, Tim Riggins, and an androgynous reality TV star that gave you bi panic in 10th grade doesn’t make YOU less into Ben. He’s capable of desiring the hottest babe walking planet earth right now, AND you: a woman who regularly opts to wear her thongs inside out to avoid the laundromat.”
Perplexingly, this does not talk me off the ledge. I feel my Cool Girl façade cracking.
We sit down and Ben cracks open the menu. I attempt grounding techniques, as if after 6 years of failing on a near-daily basis to meditate, tonight is when I finally master the art of quieting my own thoughts. The Calm app rolls its eyes from my iPhone home screen.
Then it happens: hot waitress.
That’s right, we have a hot server, and she is a she. And she’s not just hot, she’s hot with dark features. Deep brown eyes. Enviable eyebrows. She’s almost…Albanian looking. Almost…a dead fucking ringer for Dua Lipa.
Ok, not a dead ringer, more like a distant cousin. But that’s enough for me to start unraveling as soon as she walks away with our drink order.
Ben, blissfully unaware his date is about to crash out, is salivating over the happy hour menu. “So I’m thinking the mozzarella sticks to sta—.”
“Dua— DUA LIPA CAN’T DANCE.”
Ben is caught off guard. “Oh?”
“Yeah, haven’t you seen the memes? She just kinda stands in place and shimmies on stage. Lame.”
Non-chalant? Not at all. But convincing?
“I mean…I would gladly get shimmied on.”
Nope, try again. Double down. Make him question his taste.
“She’s also totally had work done. I’ve seen the before pictures and, pffft, honestly she looks like a different person.”
Ben’s face shifts from amusement to…oh god, is that pity? Shit. I should’ve stopped while I was ahead.
“Are you…jealous right now? Of a celebrity I'll never meet?”
My teeth clench. Playfully, I find Ben’s leg with my foot, and less playfully, swing it in the direction of his balls.
Mid “Jesus, what the fuh—,” the server returns with our food. I put on a show for her, “Oh my god, that smells incredible,” while Ben stares at me, bewildered.
The server walks away, and we start play fighting – him rattling off other things about Dua Lipa he finds hot in between bites of his burger; me throwing technically sarcastic but rage-laced jabs back. I'm watching myself implode in real time. Every word coming out of my mouth is relationship poison, but I can't stop. It's like watching a car crash where you're both the driver and the horrified bystander.
Then, he fires off three words that, when directed at a woman, are considered verbal assault in at least 6 states:
“You’re acting crazy.”
This could have been the moment that jolts me back into reality. The record-scratch-freeze-frame moment that forces me to see the error of my ways. But he went and pulled the crazy card, so I had no choice but to lean in.
Before I can process what I’m doing, a french fry leaves my hand and hits Ben square in the chest. Because you know what crazy girls do? They weaponize condiments.
Ben stares down at his ketchup-streaked shirt, then back at me, mouth agape but... amused?
“Oh my god. I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I did that.” But I do know. I know exactly why.
I’m suddenly hot and panicked – a kid coming down from a tantrum. Ben starts laughing. Hesitantly, I laugh too. I dip the corner of my napkin in my water glass and hand it over — a soggy white flag. He takes it, flinching for dramatic effect (men are so funny!).
“That was insane of me, I’m sorry.”
But it feels less like an apology and more like a confession: I’m not effortless, I’m not unbothered. I actually try really hard and I’m bothered by a lot. Cool Girl had been my stunt double, and she was just slain in a food fight.
Ben dabs the ketchup. "It's okay. I mean, Dua Lipa probably wouldn't have thrown food at me..."
I raise my eyebrows as much as my Botox will allow.
“But I’m not dating Dua Lipa.”
…
Four years later, Ben’s still here. And Dua Lipa? Still can’t dance.