I am not the fun friend.

I am not the girl you call to party until dawn or to go to the club and dance all night or to take on fashion shopping trips or swanky dinner dates to giggle about penis shape and size and usage. 

No.  I am the friend who gets tagged for semi-intellectual exercises like these recently received from my friend Erich on Facebook:  1) List your favorite movies for every year since you were born, and 2) Name the Greatest Male & Female Rock/Pop/Blues/Jazz Singer Ever with mini-essay of justification.  Because this is what I do.  Essays of justification.  I am the one who abstractly uses phrases like “penis usage” instead of dishing about it.

A friend once called me a wet blanket.  She said it in that semi-serious way that if you called her on it, she could say that she was only kidding, but she wasn't really smiling.

I suppose one could argue that there are simply different types of fun.  But sometimes I get tired of the staid, cerebral wet blanket variety.  I want to be Sex in the City type of fun.  Black Eyed Peas dancing-in-the-disco-club-gettin’-freaky-to-the-song type of fun.  I’m the S to the T, A, C, the I, the A.  Stacialicious! 

See?  See how awkward?  It just doesn't work for me.

I ask my husband if he thinks I’m fun.  “Yes” he says, because of course he senses that this question can only effectively be answered in the affirmative.  But really, he would not know.  Because neither is he Super Woo-Hoo Fun Guy.  Not that he is of a particularly cerebral bent like me, but when he sets out to do something, he plans.  Carefully examines every possible option.  Investigates.  And plans some more.  Then he gets upset when things do not go according to said over planning.  He is the perfectionist neurotic misfit nemesis of Super Woo-Hoo Fun Guy.  And I am his gangster moll.  Or, I’d like to be his gangster’s moll because that has a sexy, naughty implication.  In reality I am just his perfectionist neurotic misfit sidekick.

I am . . . Wet Blanket Girl.