Curling Iron – 1 My Forehead – 0.
I lied; actually my curling iron is undefeated — I simply restart the count after each bout. As I sympathetically apply cocoa butter to the long red caterpillar swelling enthusiastically atop my face, I wondered: why does love – or the pursuit of it – have to be so painful? Specifically, why do women so mercilessly torture, contort and outright abuse themselves to attract men?
Now don’t get me wrong. Although the term has been fired at me on more than one occasion – usually by a fish I’ve chosen to throw back into the pond from which I mistakenly plucked him – I am by no means a ‘man hater.’ In fact, I happen to be quite fond of men. And when I find one who fits comfortably into the jigsaw puzzle that is the life I so love, he’ll not only be welcome, he’ll be quite happy. And I’ll be quite happy. However, my hoop-jumping days have ended. Accept me as I am and my love as it is given – or take a hike.
Thank you very much.
As I stood in line at the supermarket check-out, one of the tabloids shouted at me that Demi Moore had lost some ungodly amount of weight in her attempt to bring her husband back. Above the headline was a picture – likely heavily ‘photoshopped’ –of a skin-draped skeleton that purported to be her new body. I haven’t a clue whether the report was accurate – I honestly didn’t care enough at the time to bother to read it. But that photo haunted me. And I wondered: so Ashton wants a rack of bones? But what does Demi want? Is Demi happy? Does Demi really prefer to see the vacant eyes of a half-decayed cadaver staring back from her mirror to the muscular, yet feminine body she wore so beautifully before? Wouldn’t Demi love a slice of chocolate cake?
Why do we betray our bodies and often jeopardize our health in our pursuit of men? Is having a penis-in-residence so important that we sacrifice ourselves to be whatever it wants us to be? Why can we not accept and love ourselves as we are for the wonderful women we are – and welcome into our lives only those men who can do the same?
And while we’re on the subject of torture-in-pursuit-of-a-battery-free-life, let’s talk about another of my pet peeves – high heels. No, I don’t hate them simply because when I try wearing them my butt spends more time slapping the floor than pouting at the men who follow behind me. I hate them because they are not good for us! They are not good for our backs! They are not good for our legs! They are not good for our feet! They are not good for our toes! Their only function is to give the appearance of lengthier legs and a lifted butt. Why? Yes, to attract men!! Although they were originally made fashionable by Catherine de Medici who was a short-shit who wanted to compete with her fiancé’s taller mistress, there are those of my sisters who see them – much like the binding of the feet in ancient China – as a way to cripple women. And while that might not be the intent, there aren’t many doctors who will tell you that is not the result. The dollars we pay for Choo’s shoes are chump change in comparison to what our bodies – especially our screaming toes – pay in pain. Ladies, do you genuinely enjoy wearing those things? Are you comfy wearing them while you’re doing the things you love? Do they really make you happy?
Officially the purpose of those nasty, vicious little underwires in many of our bras (I shared my tale of underwire terrorism in my post, Change) is to support our breast tissue. Yeah, right. I’m guessing it has a lot more to do with to do with lifting the girls, separating them and drawing curious – usually mustachioed, always horny — noses directly into their valley of flesh. Underwire bras are yet another of the ways in which we torture our bodies to avoid killing our own damn spiders. Are they painful? Yes! Can they pierce the skin? Yes! Can they cut off your circulation? Yes! In their defense, however, they have been known to stop bullets.
And like the Energizer Bunny, the list just keeps going …
Have you ever noticed that men do not jump through these hoops – for you? Yeah, some make a major sacrifice by hopping in the shower before a date. Others might actually spend a little time in the gym. But that’s about it. I find it hard to imagine a man spread-eagle on the spa table with hot wax being poured around and onto his little diddly-doodle-bobbies. And although the thought brings an ever so slight smile to my face, I find it hard to imagine he-who-is-completely-incapacitated-at-the-first-sign-of-a-sniffle not going into complete shock as the wax and the hair around which it has hardened is then ripped from his nether regions.
But you suffer that to change yourself for him, don’t you?
While we’re all very different, we’re all very beautiful. And as long as we find ourselves so, the right man will as well. And screw — oops! — don’t screw any man who doesn’t.