It's not about them.
In any way.
Shape. Or form.
And I say this with a terrific amount of certainty after a recent conversation with my beloved, who was under the mistaken impression that all of the primping and plucking and hoisting up meant otherwise.
"What's goin' on here?" he says, circling a finger in the air around my freshly bronze powdered face. "Is this because Matt's coming over?"
"No. It's because he's bringing his girlfriend."
(clearly)
(The End)
"What? Why?"
(again, clearly)
"Because women don't get dressed for men, honey. We get dressed for other women."
That's like...Chiquitas 101.
(Maybe 105.)
(101 might be that whole "Go ahead" really means "Don't you freakin' dare." thing)
And any woman who says differently is lying.
Or full of crap.
Or trying to make you think she's better than you because that's what you do which makes you feel like crap.
All of which circles back around to the fact that any woman's biggest challenge in her appearance is another woman.
"Are you serious?"
"Yes. All women do."
"All women do?"
"Of course. It's an adversarial thing."
I simply need to know that I look better than any other woman in the room when I arrive.
Or than any other woman who shows up while I'm there.
Or makes the scene after I leave.
"I don't get it."
Evidently.
"Look. Women size each other up. Hair. Make-up. Shoes. Jewelry. Cleavage. Bra straps. Back fat. Nail polish. All of it. All the time. It's exhausting, but it's what we do to make sure that we're always the winner."
"You do that?"
"Yes...and so does any woman in her right mind. Women are very competitive."
(even Ingrid Bergrman)
(which is why she gets on the plane at the end. Of the. Movie.)
"It's like men pissing on trees."
"That doesn't make any sense."
"Sure it does. You're my tree. And this lipstick is my....It's....how....It's just what we do. Okay? Adapt and accept."
"Whatever. Women are freaky."
I've never said otherwise.
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