Lamentations On Being A Girl

Okay, so before I begin, Dad the content in this might not be considered suitable for your viewing – so quick, look over here!

[Well, it’s not that bad. But it does entail me going on and on about the weird things girls do, including a lengthy discussion on undergarments. So you really might want to check this out. Seriously? Okay, well you were warned. Your baby girl is pushing thirty.

As for what Mom would think of this, well, she’d probably just shake her head and huff at all the trivial little things I do and tell me how unnecessary it all is. And to this, I sigh, agree that I am indeed very silly, and resign myself to the fact that there is some bizarre instinctive remnant not yet evolved out of the species. Moving on.]

Saturday morning was shopping time. I decided it was time for new business pants, of which I am sorely in need. I have an old pair of black stretchy ones that used to be awesome until I dorked out and set the iron on way too high for the miniscule spandex content that give said pants their awesome stretchiness. So now, if my poor laundry regime forces me into actually wearing these pants to work I have to find ways to hide the big old glossy iron burn mark on the upper thigh. Not the easiest place to hide, as you might imagine. Then I have an old pair of classy grey pants with a sweet little ribbon running a few inches above the hemline that, in theory, I love, but in practice are just super uncomfortable. The waistband has no give, and this makes me understand how as you grow old you just gradually start to convert your entire wardrobe to the evil elastic waistband. And then somewhere in between forty and sixty, you just end up looking like the grade three elementary teacher you had, with the stretchy waistband pants, with the pleats down the front, and the beige Hush Puppies with arch supports and white tennis socks, and the reading glasses on a chain, and the Northern Reflections pink cardigan embroidered with birds and flowers and insects eating the all the birds and flowers and – creepy. I resolve to never let this happen to me, so I have retired these pants because the mark they leave upon my stomach as I sit down digs right through my belly button and pushes up against my spleen and causes all sorts of grief. And then I have the old standby pair of black dress pants: fitted in all the right places, flowing in all the right places, classy buttoned pockets here and there and very, very versatile. Too versatile. I have worn them so much that they are frayed and burred in places and it’s starting to feel not so proper to be wearing them anymore. Hence: shopping.

And under the fluorescent lights of the fitting room, one thing becomes very clear: I am in between sizes right now, swimming in the larger, stretching out in the smaller. Drat. The dilemma being that I really need the pants, like stat. The solution being that I blame winter for the extra soft bits, buy the smaller and walk my tooshie through the park every day after work. The immediate compromise required, though, was the real kicker for me: I’m going to need a thong.

I’m a hold out. I know. I know practically every other woman my age has long since adopted this form of undergarment. Along with high heels, co-ordinate purses, make-up every day, at least three different varieties of hair care product, manicured nails, pumiced soft feet, eyelash curling and tinting, and waxing of all various and sometimes intimate areas of the body – as if all of these uncomfortable chores have become requisite just to be admitted into the girls’ club. But I just didn’t want to give in on this one!

I have already given so much over to consumerist tendencies. Honestly. A quick inventory of my beauty product shelf reveals some scary, scary stuff:

· twelve makeup bags from various free gifts at the Bay
· a veritable lifetime supply of anti-wrinkle eye creams, travel size mascaras, and eyeshadows
· a whole bag full of lipsticks!
· half a dozen different scents of perfume, none of which are of the no-name variety
· two tins full of hair elastics and barrettes and scrunchies and claws, which is insane given that for ninety percent of my life my hair has not even fallen beyond my chin
· a pumice stick that is essentially just sandpaper for the feet, and it is a lot of work, yo!
· daily body moisturizer, and then also a body moisturizer with a hint of sparkle in it for special days
· daily body wash, and then a special body wash I only use when I need to exfoliate, and just those last three words actually make me roll my eyes
· cleansers and toners and daily cloths and masks of the facial variety
· disposable razor, twin blade razor, electric razor with five different attachments and three canisters of ladies’ shaving cream, which is no different from men’s except in the scent
· two tubes of Nair, despite the above, and despite the fact that from time to time I actually pay someone to physically rip all my deeply rooted hair from my body, which OUCH, why the hell??

IT. NEVER. ENDS.

I have a bin full of purses, and a rack full of colour-coded sandals, and a closet full of season-appropriate coats. I! CAN’T! STOP!

And half the time I don’t even know if I possess all these things and put all that effort into my own body maintenance because 1) some commercial told me I needed them, 2) boys really do think I look prettier that way or 3) I just saw some other woman do it one time and thought to myself “If she’s doing it then I guess I have to.” Would you notice if I didn’t wax my eyebrows? If I didn’t wear mascara everyday? If I didn’t wear the push-up bra? Would you really judge me if my panty line was visible?

Because thongs are un-comfortable! And ass-baringly un-sexy! I mean, I know there are plenty out there who would disagree with me, but I once heard thongs referred to as “butt floss” and the visual that produces is both accurate and unpleasant! In my humble opinion, the site of a giant T-bar sticking out of the tops of ladies low-rise jeans is more unsightly and more of a huge turnoff than my nemesis: the visible panty line. BUTT. FLOSS. People! And it’s not like I haven’t tried to enjoy the thong – I have. I just don’t like them. Thongs are unnecessary, lascivious overkill. I like a full cushion for my bottom. I’m not talking Granny panties, but a cute little bikini or boys’ cut will do just fine, thank you very much. So, honestly, would you really judge me if my panty line was visible?

Yes, yes you would. Especially in these new pants in the early stages of shedding of the winter layer. So I caved, finally. Just add it to the ever growing list of uncomfortable things I need to do to maintain my membership in the girls’ club. I think we need a referendum on this sort of thing. The president of the chapter might want to ease up on the list of admission requirements. It’s getting out of hand.