I was almost Lena Dunham-ed this weekend. If you don’t know who Lena Dunham is, Google “Lena Dunham and Odell Beckham.” Here’s my definition. Lena Dunham – (verb) when a white girl or someone else of privilege uses their white guilt to create a narrative for someone of lesser privilege. Used in a sentence: “Becky just tried to Lena Dunham me because I told her I never had hummus.”
Here’s a little background on Lena. You see Lena is the girl that grew up in a conservative and mildly dysfunctional middle-class family. I say mildly because they’re familial dynamics are unhealthy in a functioning alcoholic way. Jeff, her dad, spends most of his time on “business trips” with his second family. Betty, her mom, is overbearing and ignores the fact that her husband is cheating on her by drinking five glasses of red wine a night. And Ray, her younger brother sticks Adderall up his anus to see if it makes him high. Lena’s beliefs are an annoying rebuttal to her familial dynamics. She’s a walking liberal cliché. None of this may be true, but I thought I would lena dunham Lena Dunham to give you the perspective of what it means to be lena dunham-ed. Are you following?
Now, that that’s out of the way. Let me tell you how I was almost lena dunham-ed. I went on this business trip to the middle of nowhere Michigan and Indiana. Trump and Pence signs were staked in yards like Christmas Decoration in the middle of December. Note, I hate business trips because they are exhausting. And with most business trips, there’s always the necessary dinner where beer is mandatory. I don’t drink beer. It tastes like freshly cut grass. I’d prefer a mixed drink, whiskey or a bourbon if I have to choose. Now, liquor makes me sleepy. There I was, with my mixed drink, trying my best to smile and pretend like I’m amused with their conversation and generic jokes, when I really wanted to pull the covers over my head and go into hibernation. Here comes Lena.
Lena was looking at me the entire night with this pensive expression on her face. “Oh hell nah!” I thought to myself. I knew what it was…she was trying to figure me out. One thing I don’t like is people trying to figure me out. Why? Because:
- I don’t like people all up in my business.
- I know that leading up to people getting all up in my business, there were gonna be a lot…I mean A LOT of stupid questions.
- I DO NOT LIKE PEOPLE ALL UP IN MY BUSINESS.
I have a tendency to answer stupid questions with snarky, facetious answers. It’s like a natural reaction for me. You don’t go to a Coke vending machine expecting a Pepsi product. You put that dollar in, no matter the brand, you’re gonna get a Coke-manufactured product. It can be neutral or evasive like Dasani Water. Or it can be fizzy and tart like a Sprite. But you’re gonna get a Coke product regardless.
There she was. Full of beer. Tart breath, smelling like freshly cut grass of a well worked cow pasture. The alcohol didn’t allow her to put an entire dollar into the machine. But I knew she was collecting her change, making sure it’s the right amount. She starts putting the change in the machine. A quarter. Three nickels. And six dimes. Here. It. Comes. “What world are you in? Where’s your mind?” There I was. Fighting the urge. Thinking to myself, “Gather your thoughts, sir. Gather your thoughts. You’re in a ‘professional’ setting. She’s a client.” I didn’t answer. I just sat there with a smug smirk on my face. She asks again, “Where’s your mind? Where are you?” That’s when it burst out my mouth like Mariah Carey’s bosom in a smedium bustier, “In Grand Rapids, Michigan.”
The Keke Palmer gag is, we weren’t even in Grand Rapids. I tried to save it. “Well, in Michigan.” We weren’t in Michigan either. We were in Mishawaka, Indiana. I may have fell at delivering the “punchline,” but I did nip that shit in the bud. The stupid questions subsided as I survived an attempt at being Lena Dunham-ed.