Being a woman is hard work. Seriously. The upkeep and the maintenance that is required of women is not only psychologically trying, sometimes it's just downright torture. We have to look good, act ladylike, and be able to have a pot roast dinner on the table by 6 p.m. every night. All without breaking a sweat. I don't think men truly appreciate the effort we put in.
For real, having a vagina is expensive. The clothes, the make-up, the footwear… I had to take out a second mortgage just to buy my winter wardrobe. Which is weird, because I don't own a home. (How about we just keep that between us, huh? Wells Fargo doesn't need to know.)
A lot of guys wonder why girls are so bitchy. You try cramming your foot into a 45 degree angle for eight hours. Allow me to elaborate further.
Let me put this into perspective a bit for you, gentlemen. Imagine applying a layer of hot wax to your balls and then having it ripped off by some woman named Claude who speaks with a Hungarian accent and keeps telling you to "spread wider." Now imagine having that done every four to six weeks. Now that we've done your balls, let's move on to your legs. Now your armpits. Now your eyebrows.
I'm fairly certain there are few things more painful in life than having your crotch waxed. The only things I can think of are childbirth and being forced to sit through Glitter. And then, of course, you are faced with the possible consequence of a bad wax job. I am no stranger to the bad wax job. I once went into a MasterCuts looking like Bert from Sesame Street and came out looking like a Latina girl discovering brow liner for the first time.
There was also once a two week period where I looked constantly surprised. Every room I entered, I immediately had to say something shocking just to make it less obvious. "Ricky Martin's gay?!?!" or "A black guy is president?!?!" or "Women are allowed to vote?!?!"
A lot of guys wonder why girls are so bitchy. You try cramming your foot into a 45 degree angle for eight hours and tell me you're not a little pissy. Girls say they don't mind wearing heels, but let's be honest ladies, wouldn't you much rather spend a night out at the bars in a comfortable pair of flip flops or even perhaps a nice set of loafers? Women only wear high heels for two reasons:
- It gives the appearance of longer and leaner legs.
- It makes us feel taller than everyone else.
If I want my legs to appear longer and leaner, I simply carry around the bottom half of my Gisele Bundchen life-size cardboard cut-out. I fasten it to my waist so it gives the illusion that her legs are actually my own. The same method is used for my backside, except instead of Gisele Bundchen, I use the bottom half of my Jennifer Lopez life-size cardboard cut-out.
When I want to feel taller than everyone else, I don't wear heels, I just hit up a child's birthday party. Not only am I taller than everyone there, but there's also usually a nice cake. Sure, I've been banned from most of the Chuck E. Cheese's in the tri-state area, but my self-esteem has skyrocketed.
I understand the concept behind the strapless bra: hold those suckers in place without visible cloth strings hoisting them up. This is all dandy in theory and practical if your chest resembles that of pre-pubescent boy; however, if you happen to be breastically-blessed, such as myself, then you know the love/hate relationship with the strapless bra.
It's nearly impossible for a girl with a large rack to wear this type of support without A) pulling up her bra every five minutes or B) having her breasts resemble that of famed actress Betty White. Version 2010, not version 1950. Or even version 1990. Are those two large tumors growing out of that woman's hip bones? No. Those are what scientists refer to as Boobus Sagus. Or, in layman's terms, sagging boobies.
Every time I wear one, I feel like MacGyver. I once wore a black, strapless dress to a wedding and had a friend ask me how I got my boobs to stay so perky. A paperclip, two rolls of industrial strength duct tape and season 5, disc 4 of Knots Landing.
Now that I've lost any of the remaining male audience I had, I'd like to discuss periods. Or mensies, as I call them. Getting a visit from Aunt Flo. High tide. Surfing the crimson wave. Little Red Riding Hood is making her way through the woods. Saddling old Rusty. You can name it whatever cutesy nickname you want, but let's just call it what it is: bleeding out of your vagina for five straight days.
I remember my first visit to Arts & Crafts Week at Panty Camp. It was at the tender age of 14. Because I was raised by my father, I had to navigate the world of feminine hygiene products all on my own. I still, to this day, recall standing in the aisle at the local grocery store, trying to figure out the difference between a pad and a tampon. No applicator versus applicator. Cardboard or plastic.
Needless to say, I was very confused and very unsure of how to proceed. I mean, with pads it was like: well this one is super absorbent and has an attractive pink wrapper. But this one has wings. And leather interior. And comes with satellite radio. With tampons it was more: wait, YOU WANT ME TO STICK THAT WHERE?!?!
And the commercials for these hygiene products? Don't get me started. When I'm cramping, I'm usually curled up into the fetal position on my couch, spooning a heating pad, watching Lifetime and cursing the entire male gender. The last thing I want to do is walk along a beach in soft lighting, while a Sarah McLachlan song plays in the background. You and your menstrual propaganda tampon ads aren't fooling anyone, Procter & Gamble.
I haven't even begun to skim the surface of what is required of the female gender, but I think I've sufficiently scared off 90% of the male readership for Points in Case. And I'm going to stop now before my editor Court tells me to take my boob and vagina talk elsewhere before I further alienate the remaining 10%.