Last night my friend Miranda got invited to a dinner by a man she hardly knew: she was the date of Nick Waxler, a fairly successful sports agent who once told her she had nice legs.
For a first date, Miranda felt like she was hitting it out of the ballpark, until his friends told her that Nick had this thing for models: they'd come to dinner, push their food around and pout.
It got to be a problem. They decided to take action. Miranda confronted him, and it didn't take him long to fold.
Modelizers are a particular breed: they're a step beyond womanizers who will sleep with just about anything in a skirt. Modelizers are obsessed not with women, but with models who in most cities are safely confined to billboards and magazines but in Manhattan actually run wild on the streets turning the city into a virtual Model Country Safari where men can pet the creatures in their natural habitat.
There's nothing like raising the subject of models among four single women to spice up an otherwise dull Tuesday night. Suddenly I was interested: if models could cause otherwise rational individuals to crumble in their presence, exactly how powerful was beauty?