Thursday, August 5, 2010

Damsel Jungle

When I have a brand new hairdo
With my eyelashes all in curl,
I float as the clouds on air do,
I enjoy being a girl!
(Rodgers and Hammerstein musical Flower Drum Song, "I Enjoy Being a Girl")
Outside of the obvious Little Red Corvette zooming in every month--that's agony all on its own--have you ever realized being a girl is tough?  Just the junk we deal with to make it through the day is mind boggling.

For example, I wear heels.  A lot.  So, walking in them is a piece of cake for me.  I feel tall and confident.  And they put an extra oomph in my sway.  But, the whole time I'm thinking, don't fall, please don't fall!  It's a science we subject ourselves to just for that little extra dollop of sexiness.  Not only do we have to avoid all the cracks in the sidewalk, but there are sidewalk grates, the space between the elevator door and the floor, man holes, and virtually anything a heel can slip through.  Either of these could leave you belly flopping on the pavement or cursing at a broken heel.

Walking down stairs becomes just as precise as a tightrope act.  And going up can be just as bad because sometimes the heel doesn't want to join the rest of your foot on the step.  Somehow you find yourself sprawled at the bottom of the stairs with your underwear in the spotlight because your skirt is somewhere around your ears.

Now, it's possible to have a day without any stair or sidewalk incidents.  So, you're happily strolling down the street making crunch-time decisions.  Hmm...sushi or deli wrap for lunch?  And a bus roars down the street with a blast of air riding its bumper.  The air whooshes around you like a naughty boy on his bike with one thing on its mind.  Lifting up your skirt.  And while you're fighting to tame your skirt, which by now is hovering above your head like a cotton-blend halo, everyone within eyesight is gawking at your polka-dotted Betty Boop undies.

Then, there is the whole wrestling with the toilet liner thing.  You pull it out of its little black box, ripping it of course, while tap dancing in the stall.  You spread it out on the seat and wait a few seconds to make sure it's not going to slip in.  You race to unsnap, unhook, pull up, and yank down because not only is your bladder dangerously approaching bursting level, but the liner decides it wants to take a swim.  Dammit, you're not going to make it!  You accelerate at Superman speed and come just short of peeing on the back of your underwear before plopping down.  That cooling sensation you feel has nothing to do with a York Peppermint Patty. It's the feel of your naked cheeks kissing the toilet seat.  Major ew.

Hmm...interesting...why do 3 of the scenarios involve your undies?  Deserves some pondering.  So does all the other crazy things we hack through in the Damsel Jungle.  But, right now I have heels to repair, Betty Boop underwear to burn, and an ass to disinfect with Lysol.

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