I love a night out, having a purpose to wear something pretty, to apply perfume and make-up, and a reason to actually fix my hair. What I don’t love is the process it takes to get ready to go on such an outing. If you have a vagina, chances are you can relate to the inner dialogue that screams in my head Every. Single. Time. I go out. It goes something like this:
4:49: I can’t wait to go out tonight. Should be fun. I’m supposed to meet the girls at 8:00. I have plenty time to clean my kitchen, mop the floor, cook dinner, practice spelling with son for tomorrow, and get ready. Hmmm…What should I wear? Oh, I’ll wear that green dress. What shoes?
Ding: Oh, look, Beth mentioned me in a comment on Facebook. Wonder what it could be.
Two hours and seven minutes later …
Oh shoot! I have to cook dinner and get ready, but these girls keep talking about boobs and showing me naked pictures of men who look exactly like my book boyfriends.
Quickly types: “I have to go get dinner ready, mop the floor, shower, shave my legs and armpits, and work on spelling words for tomorrow’s spelling test. AND I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I’M WEARING TO GIRLS’ NIGHT OUT. See you later, girls.”
Runs through kitchen, pulls out frozen pizza, turns on oven, throws pizza into cold oven even though the directions clearly state preheat first, and grabs broom. Sweeps feverishly. Gets two paper towels and dampens them with water, puts one under each foot and scoots along kitchen floor like a penguin or a walrus or a pregnant woman purposely stopping at the place where son spilled Powerade after school. Looks around.
Good enough. Dangit, I forgot to set the timer on the pizza. It’s been about seven minutes.
Sets timer for 18 minutes.
Runs to the shower. Strips and jumps into cold water.
Mother #@$% it’s cold. Who designed this place with the water heater in the attic? How am I supposed to shave my legs in this glacier cold shower?
Fifteen minutes later…Places two cotton balls strategically on cut ankles. Walks into closet searching for green dress. Pushes hangers aside in a panic searching for green dress like it’s the holy flipping grail.
Where is my green dress?
Hand lands on dress. Pulls it off the hanger and tries it on. Stares at self for approximately eleven minutes and twenty three seconds in full length mirror.
Turns to the side. Sticks out chest and butt. Sucks in belly. Turns around. Looks over shoulder at butt.
Does my butt look funny? Oh my God. Yes. My butt looks terrible and weird. Is it the mirror? Why is my right butt cheek bigger than my left? How is it humanly possible to be this white? What is that? Is that a varicose vein? ON MY CALF? Jesus Christ!!!
Pulls off green dress, throws it on the floor, and studies lopsided ass in the mirror.
I must have a tumor in my right butt cheek? Did I squat too much on one side? How can I build up my left cheek to match the right one?
Does 20 one legged left sided squats. Falls on the ground in underwear. Cries for a minute. Looks at the time.
What is that beeping? Oh no, the pizza.
Runs into kitchen wearing only underwear and pulls slightly crispy (black) pizza out of oven. Calls kids for dinner.
“I’m not eating that,” Kid one.
“Gross. What’s that smell? Is something on fire?” Kid two.
“No darlings, it’s dinner. It’s a delicious pizza. Here sit down and have a slice, and I’ll let you have some of mommy’s candy stash for dessert.”
Little ungrateful brats don’t deserve my rolos.
“I see your butt,” Kid two.
“Where are your pants?” Kid one in his best Lego Movie impersonation.
Leaves children cracking up and picking at burned pizza. Runs back into bathroom. Passes full length mirror and flips off reflection of lopsided ass.
Carefully walks into closet avoiding stepping on ass distorting green dress.
Maybe I’ll wear this white dress. It’s cute. No it’s going to rain. Throws white dress on the closet floor. Hmmm…how about this pink dress. That will look cute with the new bracelet Nikki convinced me to buy. Tries on dress, goes back to asshole mirror. Nope. Throws pink dress on the floor of closet. Ooohhh! I forgot about this. Takes never worn shirt from a hanger, holds it up to body, looks in the mirror, tries shirt on. Now I remember why it still has the tags on it. Hell no.
Walks out of closet defeated. Starts applying makeup. Turns on music to get in the mood for dancing. Shakes booty while powdering face. Daughter enters the room.
“Mommy, what are you doing? Why does your butt shake like that when you dance? It looks funny, mommy.” Breaks into hysterical laughter.
“Let’s turn on Bubble Guppies, my sweet honest little asshole girl.”
Runs back into bathroom ignoring both the full length mirror and the clock. Heart is racing. Runs to bar. Pours a glass of wine (shuddap it’s girls’ night out, and I’m ubering).
Back to the bathroom. Drinks wine while applying make-up. Pulls out new microfiber lash mascara purchased from friend who wouldn’t leave her alone on Facebook. Reads directions twice. Applies lashes.
What the actual? Eye is on fire. My eye is on fire. Eye is on fire.
Runs to sink, puts eye directly under running water. When eye no longer feels like it is searing from its socket, stands up and looks in the mirror.
Great. I am a raccoon, with Medusa inspired hair.
Hair is a complete halo of frizz. Sprays lion’s mane with leave-in conditioner then volumizer. Dries hair, continually tangling roll brush into hair and whisper screaming as the brush yanks clumps of hair out of scalp. Quality mirror check.
What is wrong with my hair? Why will it not lay down flat? Is that a gray hair?
Climbs up on counter and puts head up against the mirror. Plucks out three hairs just in case.
Why couldn’t the gray hair have been part of the scalping the brush just performed?
Notices smudges on mirror. Gets glass cleaner. Cleans smudge. Sees another smudge. Cleans it. Cleans the entire mirror. And the counter. And the shower.
Washes black stained face. Re-applies make-up. Opts out of microfiber eyes. Makes a mental note to delete “friend” from Facebook. Goes back into the fifth realm of hell aka the closet.
Pulls out nine dresses, three pairs of pants, five different tops, and two pairs of shorts. Throws all of it on bed. Looks at clock: 7:45. Grabs phone to request Uber. App has to do a manual update to work and asks for credit card number, phone number, drivers license number, name of first born child, social security number, bra size, and shoe size.
At least it didn’t ask for my ass size.
Ding: Your uber will arrive in nine minutes.
Nine minutes? Nine minutes?
Searches through nineteen outfits on bed, fourteen outfits on closet floor, and the dryer. Sits down in a panic on bedroom floor in nothing but bra and panties. Cries for about two minutes because:
I have absolutely nothing to wear. I must go shopping tomorrow. I have a lopsided ass, desperately need a tan and a hair cut, and my eye lashes are short and thin. I am not going. I want to stay home in my yoga pants and eat popcorn and rolos, but my kids just ate all my rolos.
7:52 Ding: Your uber has arrived
Shit he’s early.
7:53 Ding: a text message from a friend: What are you wearing? I’m running late. I look like shit, and I’m already drunk.
Sigh. At least I’m not the only one.
8:01: Walks into closet.
Puts on green dress, gold earrings, and tan wedges. Kisses darling children goodbye.
8:24: Arrives at bar. Greets the girls.
“Oh my God, you look so cute. I love your dress. Your ass looks amazing. Let’s have a glass of champagne.”
I have the best friends in the entire world.
Toasts with girlfriends. Hears favorite song. Drags girlfriends to dance floor. Dances and dances and dances, twirling around in a haze of green and gold. Smiling and laughing.
1:42: Quietly walks into house. Sheds green dress at the door, tan wedges in the hall, drops purse on the floor by the kitchen. Drinks 32 oz of water. Takes two tylenol. Walks into bedroom. Passes full length mirror. Winks and smiles at reflection.
Tell me, ladies … is it just me?