The Daily, Death-Dealing Drudgery

Weapons of fucking mass destruction.

Men say that they like us “natural,” that we don’t need all that “stuff” to be attractive, that we look our sexiest when we roll out of bed first thing in the morning or in my case, the afternoon, but whatever. This is flaming bullshit that men say because they want to get laid and because we don’t spend an hour blow-drying our pubes or mowing the patch like a stripper, or paint eighty-dollar make-up on our boobs and vaginas, which is what guys are looking at when judging our desirability on that 0-10 scale anyway. As long as there is a usable port, we are fucking supermodels. But the point is that women spend a Godawful amount of time and coin getting all dolled up for approximately nothing.  

I passionately hate rolling out of bed to start with, and having to suffer the twin-tortures of bathing and ablutions is like salting third-degree burns. But it’s that, or scare off the town’s children and draw a torch-bearing mob to the door. So. First comes the bath. Showers are for pussies. If you can’t get in there and stew in your own filth for a good, solid 15-30, you FAIL. After the inevitable drying off, preferably with a non-bacteria-infested towel that doesn’t leave a hint of locker-room on the skin, the mirror will probably by now be unfogged, and you can clearly see your mammothness in its reflective horror. Just ignore as I do. Before the petroleum-products application, there is the slathering of the creams. This is a vital and often over-looked step. But if you do not fill all your cracks and crevices with something, that bare mineral crap is going to settle in those valleys, and believe me the early-morning sun rising over that is not a breath-taking vista. And for God’s sake, don’t forget the mascara. Nothing says I have given up and even my genitals will crumble to dust on touch like pale, undefined eye slits.

After you complete your plastering, you must attend to your scalp growth. Short, scraggly, grey, long, bleached, woven, shaved, colored, thin, permed, thick: no matter what the status of your wig, it is an ugly lie perpetuated by Angelina Jolie movies that a woman’s hair will look luxurious without toil. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. Condition. Rinse. Pat dry. Detangle. Comb. Flip. Blow dry. Flip. Style. Curl. Style some more. Spray. Fluff. And nothing better get near your ‘do for the rest of the day. God help an errant breeze. (I mentioned Him in the other paragraphs, and didn’t want this one to feel left out. I apologize in advance to the next one.)

The selecting of the garments is my least favorite part of an already excruciating chore. All of my clothes are arranged by category and color, and yet day after day, I stand there like a lobotomy-recipient, drooling, mouth-breathing, grunting, trying to decide what to drag over my shapeless carcass. It is a successful hunt when the pieces match somewhat and do not have any noticeable food-spills. The downside to being finished with the daily drudgery is that it means I am now ready for work or shopping at Wal Mart, both of which are slightly less appealing than bare-foot, fiery-coal traipsing. But someone has to purchase those weapons of beauty so I can start all over again tomorrow. Sigh.