Not long ago, while waiting for my school train (which smells like a hundred ham-fisted schoolboy colognes), an enormous woman began showing me the pictures she carries around of her ex-boyfriend. She knows he dumped her because she doesn’t look like Britney Spears (or maybe she does, in triplicate). She eyed my hips and I could tell that I was indistinguishable, at that moment on her platform, from Britney Spears. “Haven’t seen your man,” I nearly said, pulling up my sleeves and turning out my pockets as proof; “I swear to you I only inherited this metabolism, and already it’s showing alarming signs of wear and tear.” But I know what she means. Without girls like Britney around, she’d do all right.