Love Me for My Resume!

Salutations, gentlemen. To start, like most beautiful and successful women, I should have just cut and pasted my six-page resume onto this personal ad with the deluded belief that what men really want in a lover is someone who has two master degrees, eleven certifications ranging from Dendrite Proliferation to Chemical Accounting, and who works 70 hours a week in “financial services.” But then I would have left out other feats meant to impress a guy who just wants to get laid. Ergo, call this my secondary resume.

I never just go on vacation. Instead I make a point of undergoing strenuous activity in exotic locations so that I can afterward brag about them in conversation or in personal ads. For example, I do not merely bungee-jump on the shores of the local lake, but rather parachute out of a plane flown by a former Sandinista in far-off Patagonia. I do not merely row a canoe in a river in my home state, but rather white-water raft off Victoria Falls in Zambia. I do not merely jog around the park during my lunch hour, but rather endure a grueling seven-day 150 mile run along The Great Wall of China with a group of other “passionate” people.

Yes, I never just do things – nay, I am always “passionate” about doing things, and am so fascinated by my chronic passion that I rarely stop regarding myself as the ultimate catch. Whenever I open my mail, it is done with the fervor of Van Gogh slicing off part of his ear. My co-workers say that I am a veritable spitfire. They make a point of getting out of my way whenever I voice strong, passionate opinions usually in response to having my feelings bruised when I am the recipient of someone else’s strong opinion. In other words, I can say whatever hurtful thing comes to mind – it’s called “me being me” -- while lambasting anyone who dares to question the inherent holiness of all women, minorities and Deepok Chopra.

I attend five fitness classes a week with names such as Left Posterior Boot Camp, Self-Love Boot Camp, Oblique Rock-Climbing Boot Camp, Stiletto-Heeled Boots Boot Camp and Obnoxious-Fitness-Instructor-with-Her-Own-TV-Show Boot Camp. Suffice it to say, I also do kickboxing, a requirement for the modern woman with the perfect resume.

My official resume cites how much I want to help people, especially when my charitable endeavors can be documented with various plaques, certificates and pictures in the newspaper of me in a sexy black dress smiling with other notables at a fund raiser for Kids with Cancer, Cystic Fibrosis and Other Fucked Up Ailments. I will bake cakes for a shelter for battered women, and then hang around until every one of these traumatized ladies tells me how great I am to have donated my precious time in such a fashion – and they are more than obliging to put those sentiments on paper that I can thenceforth hang on my office wall.

Imagine, men, what would happen to you during the three minutes a week that I would allot to you in my busy, passionate schedule. But a warning: if I decide to fill those three minutes with some random activity, then you will have to settle for jerking off to my resume.