Watching last night’s Sherlock I was struck once again by the whole femme fatale archetype, and by how no matter how much I admire it, it’s one I’ll never be able to achieve. Ever. I once had a boyfriend nickname me “femme fatale”, but it didn’t fit, and he only thought it was appropriate because he barely knew me at all (seriously, who decides after one pseudo-date that you’re now in a relationship? And who goes along with that kind of thinking? Ok, I did, but it was the first month of college, and I didn’t know any better). Seeing Lara Pulver as Irene Adler (and I’m not going to go into details, because I know my best readers haven’t seen A Scandal in Belgravia yet) made it all the more clear to me that I lack the stuff that makes women (granted, they’re usually fictional, but not always- Mata Hari, I’m looking at you) mysterious, unattainable, and dangerous paragons of sexiness. It isn’t a bad thing, I think it would be exhausting, and not something I would even derive much enjoyment from, but I do feel a little jealous of those characters. It isn’t a long-term hat that you can wear, because eventually everyone gets old (or dies from some femme fatale-related cause, like being shot during a diamond heist or something), and it’s hard to maintain. You can’t be mysterious forever, or you never really get to know anyone. 97% of my brain understands that it would be a difficult, lonely way to live, but that stubborn 3% thinks a few years of daring badassery sounds like nice work if you can get it. Realistically, I should stick with the whole Girl Next Door thing, which dovetails nicely with nursing and most of my personality, but I still can’t help wishing for some poison lipstick and ninja skills.