It’s hard to be a woman. To be a fashionable woman, that is.

First of all, hoop earrings. I didn’t know so much stuff came in contact with my ears until wearing hoop earrings. And they’re not even that ostentatious size that could double as bracelets. Just, like, nickel size. My fingers, my hair, my bracelets, keys, my shirt…I don’t know.

Then there’s scarves in summer. Some women are able to pull off this accessory flawlessly. I am not one of those women. I am one of those women who just look sweaty and uncomfortable. And vaguely strangled. Because I AM. I live in Tennessee. It’s barely cold enough in January to justify them.

This brings me to dresses and tops without zippers. That doesn’t sound so bad until ….dressing rooms. And then it’s too late. They slide on easily enough. Just pull them over your head and slither them over your pudgy skin. Maybe five minutes ago would have been an opportune time to try the Spanx shaping garments because now you can’t get it off. You tug, you pull, you cuss, you pray. You sweat. You panic. You wonder who is near the mall that could dash to your aid. You finally give up and hold your breath and jerk and hope you don’t hear a rip. Because then you’re either going to have to live with your guilt forever, or buy it and the saleslady will judge while she rings you up, thinking, “She didn’t have any business in this size…or this print/ color…or this fabric. Serves her right that it tore.” *high society sniff* Very distressing.

Dressing rooms make me think of bathing suits. And not fondly. That’s the very worst kind of shopping. Shug once told me to “have fun” when I was on such an excursion. I didn’t know whether to cry hopelessly or drive off a bridge. I think I just laughed like the maniac I am.

Understated jewelry for certain events, but statement pieces at other times. Know the occasion and dress accordingly.

Tank tops. Men can run around everywhere without a shirt on and no one bats an eye but a woman has to wear, first of all, a bra. We shant scandalize the population with our free will. Then a bralette or cami to fully cover the offensive bra, and because summer shirts are thin. And they’re racerback to optimize minimal fabric touching sweaty skin. They’re thin because it’s summer and it’s HOT. But now we’re up to three layers!! Three!! Just so no one sees our chest.

Garbage, I say.

I have yet to master the art of eyeliner. And don’t even talk to me about bronzer. First of all, I’m scared. Second of all, I’m Irish. I would just look like I’ve been rolling around in a pot of gold.

Your eyelashes get thin along with your hair, so you have to use this incredibly expensive stuff called Lash Boost just to make them normal again. Biotin doesn’t cut it. Eyelashes are finicky. There’s another lash enhancer out there that works, but I’ve heard if you stop using it your eyelashes fall out.

Get waxed. What you’re too bashful to get waxed, shave.

Moisturize, deoderize, accessorize. Hydrate and exfoliate. Whiten and condition.

Highlights.

Lowlights (I don’t even know what that means, but they exist, I’m told)

Pedicures.

Manicures.

Massages.

Wrinkle cream. (3 steps plus toner, twice a day, in a specific order applied in a  specifc motion)

Sunscreen.

Tanning beds are a thing of the past, thankfully, but now there’s spray tan or sunless tanning lotion.

Straighten curly hair, but curl straight hair to give it some body. You’re gonna need a full arsenal of “product” to apply to your highlighted, keratin treated, layered hair.

Lip liner, lipstick, lip gloss.

Careful where you put those tattoos, you don’t want to generate talk or be labeled. Same goes for piercings.

But that’s not all. That’s just the “pretty” side of things. I’m just getting warmed up.

Women have all sorts of problems specific to our gender. Menopause. What comes for the thirty years before it. Breast cancer (I know men can get it, but I think it’s pretty rare). Gallstones (I understand that these are most commonly brought on by pregnancy). You can take a pill to prevent pregnancy but it causes cancer. There’s zits evidently till you’re 40, I can’t speak past that just yet. But I have a feeling they’re here to stay. We contract bladder infections super easily caused from a plethora of the most ridiculous culprits: too much yogurt, too tight pants, too frequently wearing pretty underwear! We’re covered in stretch marks after puberty and pregnancy. We get heartburn from bananas or ice cubes. But don’t belch or pass gas! But at the same time, try to sneeze or cough without peeing a little bit. We can’t sleep for worrying but if we manage to drift off and snore we catch hell from our husbands because for one night we got to rest. We’re criticized for anything we eat- “a moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips”. We’re expected to work full time, raise two children (exactly two, never more, never less -or we’re critically examined for that as well-and you simply MUST breastfeed, but only if you’re tastefully covered), keep a spotless house, maintain a healthy sex life (but not procreate if you’ve already achieved the two children), cook at least six dinners a week (that’s not hamburger helper, thankyouverymuch, we need gluten free with plenty of kale on the side), and have the slim and trim body of a woman who’s a perfect size 8 (to clothe modestly, but at the same time, trendy). Bake a cake (or is that dated? Cupcakes now? Flan?). Pair socks. Freeze a casserole. Take the dogs to the groomers/vet. Make sure they get their heartworm pill every month- coordinate it with your breast exam to simplify. Don’t forget to call your boobie buddy! Grow basil so you can make your own pesto. It’s so much HEALTHIER without all those PRESERVATIVES. Schedule dentist appointments. Keep up with momma and whatever diet she’s on and whoever last offended her at church/ Rotary/ grocery store. Arrange for activities, rental cars, and accommodations for vacations. Declutter. Plus we must entertain on a regular basis, visit the elderly and infirm, keep a engaging circle of friends as well as play dates for said children, attend church regularly (because it’s good for the kids), volunteer once a month, craft decorations from Pinterest, and speaking of social media….You’re just so OBLIGATED.

You should be able to arrange flowers, bake biscuits from scratch, hem pants, read music, keep up with current events (presumably so you’ll have something to talk about while swilling wine at the next dinner party or backyard barbeque/ birthday party), eat sushi with chopsticks, get in and out of any vehicle in a skirt without showing your good girl, walk with perfect posture, type (preferably without looking at the keyboard but not strictly required), French braid our own hair, drive a straightshift, and remember to keep our knees together and our ankles crossed every blasted minute.

And we shant curse.

*eye roll*

Yes, you must be also be a lady while you’re just struggling to be a woman.

And don’t forget to pay the bills. And while you’re doing that, better send a thank you note for the thoughtful invitation to the Pampered Chef/ 31/ Scentsy/ wrap/ shake party. You were a good friend, you bought $50 worth of stuff you might use once.

But please don’t go all emotional and cry just because you’re overwhelmed! Take your problems to your preacher, your Sunday School teacher…or better yet, just cry in the shower. Don’t show the world your weakness. You’ll give women everywhere a bad name. We’ve worked so hard to be an EQUAL.

And that’s why it’s hard to be a woman. Tammy was right.  Now don’t say I’m taking on too much. In the words of Ouiser Boudreaux, I do not make the rules. These are not my rules. They are society’s. Heavens no I don’t abide by them. I toss them right out my rolled- down window. That’s another thing. No ballcaps unless you’re at a baseball game. Headscarves are fine for convertible riding. I don’t have a convertible, I’m just too cheap to get the air conditioning fixed in Patsy. Why bother? I’m never going anywhere fancy.

I’m wearing myself out.

Men, of course, have their own share of responsibilities. They have to know how to change their oil, unclog toilets and sinks, identify all makes and models of cars from the last fifty years, kill spiders, recite statistics from five different sports teams for two different sports for the last ten years, mow the yard, and flip breakers.

They also must clip their own toenails before vacationing. But hey, they don’t have the option of covering up zits with makeup. They must simply deal with it. So there is that.

The first time I ever cooked Shug supper I burned the bread. It seems par for the course he was about to embark upon.

Our anniversary is coming up and I often think what a wonder it is I’ve managed to maintain my husband for five whole years. Really six, because we lived in sin for a year prior. Hey, I needed to know what I was getting into! You don’t wait 32 years just to jump the broom with someone you’ve never shared toothpaste with.

I’m pushing the limits of a size 12. I forget to have my hair dyed until its two weeks past time (it’s a glorious mess, anyway), manicures destroy my nails instead of strengthening them, and my glasses permanently reside on the tip of my nose, streaked and smudged. Skinny jeans are not for me and I can’t walk more than 50 feet in 3″ heels. I used to could, anyway. There’s a year’s worth of Family Circle magazines piled on my coffee table. I have good intentions of finding some sensational new recipes and gardening tips.

Oh, did I mention the only thing growing in my planter boxes on the porch is last fall’s lettuce?

There are piles of books everywhere and I insisted upon a yellow kitchen. I put off everything till the last minute and I hate crowds and stilted conversations with polite company. There are usually food drippings on my clothes. 

But hopefully I’ve got my priorities straight. Of course I’m as addicted to social media as anybody, but I get my interaction through my beloved book club, exercise via my mind, civic duties fulfilled through the library board, and my devotion lays with my country, my husband, and my dogs. I try to keep up with my blog, but I fail miserably, as I don’t post daily, I’m not set up for email alerts, my link is broken, I rarely add links in my journaling, and it’s uncommon for me to include pictures. I’m here for the words.

Thankfully Shug does so much. I am graceless. I am lucky to remember my blood pressure pill, let alone Bug’s medicine. He feeds the birds and as an added bonus, he can sew. He even sends me flowers on our anniversary.

I don’t deserve him most of the time.

He helps with the laundry and the dishes if I’m just not feeling it, and understands on the days I offer him grilled cheese and tomato soup from a can for supper.

He sticks it out with me because I never run out of toilet paper and I can make cornbread and soup beans.

I wouldn’t call him my best friend. We don’t discuss all this stuff. You need a girl for that. But he does let me cry all I want (which is a LOT) and eat all the cake I want (also a lot).

I still burn the bread. If J remarks at all, it’s only to say that’s the way he likes it.

It’s hard to be a woman. But it’s a little easier if you’ve got a good man.