You like us skinny but we’re rewarded with cheer and a heart-to-heart pat on the back (and possibly other places) when we partake in your little weekly game of all-you-can-eat buffet of sorts.
You claim to love au naturel but you, although perhaps in your mind, whistle when a 6-foot bombshell sashays along. And here we are looking down, gawkily wiping off crumbs off of our Bolognese sauce-afflicted face.
Your bushy pits are a sure sign of your bona fide masculinity, while two wee stray strands of hair on our axilla would promptly activate a jesus-christ-that-is-distasteful-haven’t-you-heard-of-a-shaver-are-you-some-sort-of-gorilla reaction.
Same goes for legs. While no-shave November or whatever gives you more time to contemplate on life and all, such a month exists not in our calendar.
When we make attempts to talk to the cute guy at the bar, we are sluts. All night you’ve been brushing arms and elbows with eleven other girls you just met, and you are somehow a hero. You are the man.
You beef about having to wait around for us so much, but you don’t know (and probably will never know) that filling in our brows, perfecting the cat eye, and teaching bobby pins to cooperate take serious time.
And that’s also because you have no idea what we’re fed and bombarded with day in day out. Have you seen what the girls in Vogue, Bazaar, Cosmo, and oh every Victoria’s Secret catalog look like?
We are expected to look clean and presentable, at all times, for ourselves, for our man (that’s you), and for humanity, yet you walk around next to us in your sweats and unwashed hair carrying your mobster I’m-a-real-man attitude (and odor).
You think it’s fun to chug a whole pint of beer for the sake of it. We don’t think so. And that makes us the opposite of cool.
You expect us to fit in those sexy dainty undies but all you want to do is binge-eat chicken wings together.
During that time of month, you try your best to run and hide, and attribute everything we say and do wrong to the menses. Ever considered that maybe, just maybe, you’re the reason we feel like breaking plates and punching the pillow (and you)?
Your dark and mean jokes are a big part of why your friends and co-workers love you. But when we attempt to express what we consider to be our unique sense of humor? We are inconsiderate bitches.
You want us to look like a million bucks, yet you expect us toe spend forever 21 dollars. Hey, you get what you pay for.
We’re expected to look fabulous going to bed and waking up, while you, God knows what you look like. So do we.
When you fart, it’s hilarious. When we do, it’s frightful.
To you, we are impossibly hypersensitive, overly emotional, thinking-with-our-hearts beings. Not completely denying that. But maybe it’s partly because you are an unbelievable insensitive, radically apathetic, thinking-with-your-mouth person.
The number of hair and makeup products we own leave you dumbstruck, yet you are able to (later on at the restaurant) expressly point out the slight unevenness of our brows when compared side by side and the impish fizz sticking out of our hair.
You expect us to make weekend plans and be the ever planner of the duo, yet somehow we upset you when we are less than spontaneous about your last-minute out-of-the-blue paintballing and bat-hunting date idea, and that of course predictably leads to: we are not so fun.
When we stand firm on our beliefs, we are stubborn and unreasonable. When you voice your opinion, you are an admirable man with character.
You want us to not be a doormat, to have our own opinion, yet we are designed to agree, and by that we mean not disagree, with yours anyhow.
You say you adore the lady in us, yet when we behave in a feminine manner and are discriminating when it comes to tea and cake, we are magically a princess. Please, we wouldn’t mind being a real one.
Your dinner plans consist of steak frites, pizza, Coca-Cola, and chocolate sundae. You expect us to be part of that. Hey don’t get us wrong, we love that shit. But don’t strip us naked anticipating a lemon-cucumber-salad-prune-juice bod.
You say you can’t stand the meek and compliant, yet you’ve silently proclaimed sandwich-making hours to be strictly between one and three in the morning. We’re the designated sandwich makers, in case you forget.
We’re expected to have a career, ambition, stark will, and altogether be sweet, kind, nurturing, gentle, girlfriend, wife, and mother material. Add spaghetti maker and suitcase packer to that list.
We girls puzzle you. But hey, so do you us. For now, I say good luck to us.