Chelsea's dinner

I have a friend whos dad is a multimillionaire. When she was visiting from college last winter, she took a handful of her friends out to an expensive dinner at a very high-class Itallian restaurant. As we examined our menus, I noticed how all of us politely pretended like we could decipher easily the paragraph-long entres. I was trying to figure out if this so-called Itallian restaurant even had spaghetti while my brother stifled a giggle about one of the menu items that seemed to be composed primarily of midevil curse words.

That's when Amanda said, "Oh my god, can anyone tell me what the hell this is? I'm supposed to be figuring out what I'm having for dinner and I feel like I'm studying for a test!"

I always have admired that person. The one who seems to speak for everyone else; the one who is uninhibited to voice what I'm even too anxious to want to think. I wish I could be that person more. I mean, it's got to be comforting to be able to not care about what other people think of you so much.