Being a Perfect Lady

April 14, 2014

You know what I think needs to be brought up more often? How having a vagina is the worst thing ever. No, seriously, think about it, it totally is. This section of the body, ringed with muscle, can push a baby the weight of a bowling ball out into the world and yet having one makes you the weakest, most pathetic creature to ever exist! Just having a vagina makes you stupid. It’s true. The internet tells me so. Look it up.

Oh, I’m so sorry. You have a vagina, don’t you? You weren’t able to make the clicky machine take you to the webspace and give you proof of your clear inferiority? It’s okay, I have special training. Many, many men got together and taught me over a period of several years how to use the clicky machine. If you have time, possibly I can teach you too… you know, if I don’t get bored and wander off. Or fall asleep. Or start to paint my nails or something.

Those are vaginas. Artistically rendered vulva / vaginas.

Oooo, pretty flowers. *drool*

I’m flighty like that, you see.

Speaking of flighty, you know what else having a vagina means? It means that you must, at all times, be presentable! I know, right? What kind of silliness is that? Who isn’t presentable at all times? I don’t know about you but I shave three times a day and do my makeup at least twice. Stubble is unpresentable, ladies. Every other Thursday I get my teeth first professionally whitened, then polished, then whitened again. If my boobs aren’t on perfect modest-but-arousing display I will put on every bra in my arsenal until I am a picture of demure beauty ripe for ogling. Then I do my daily vocal stretches, keeping my voice level and pleasant and just sultry enough to make grown men weep. I do all this before my breakfast of scented air and coffee-foam, followed up by strapping on the heels of destiny. Then it’s to the gym to work out visibly where all eyes can see me (not breaking a sweat, of course, perfect grace and presentability even while working out) until it’s time to lock myself in a room with all the other ladies where we can pound our bodies into oblivion where no male eye would dare gaze.

Then it’s time to collect my perfect children from the end of their school day. If they need homework help they will have to stay for tutoring because I’m just a mom, after all, and those numbers and words and facts and papers are just so terrifying! Maybe, if I bat my eyes just so, their father will help!

Of course there’s Eugenia-the-wonder-mom, not a hair out of place, collecting her children as well. She had triplets, don’t you know, and was back in her size 00 jeans in less than six weeks! So. Jealous. She eats like a horse, poor dear, all work and no play and her husband has to help out around the house, she’s just so busy!

At the end of the day we go home to eat the meal I slaved over and then, I put my shrieking banshee darlings to bed with a kiss atop their heads and some loving, motherly advice that they’ll hold dear to their hearts for the rest of eternity or until they become teenagers, whichever one comes first. Obligatory freshening up, marital relations, shower, and then finish up the laundry before bed. Such a busy day!

Can you imagine how much more we ladies could handle if our pesky vaginas weren’t weighing us down?!


 

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