So you think you can be a woman?
Wait a minute!
That is NOT how to properly dress-up like a girl! Don’t take it personal, but it’s more than obvious that you are a novice. Let me tell you what you did wrong. Now focus: this is how things are done.
It’s 5 in the morning. Snoozing is no longer an option, although your eyelids feel as heavy as a garage door. You don’t usually wake up before 6:30, but today, you're a woman. You have to wax. You close the door of the bathroom, get ready and count to three. One. Two. Threeaaaarrrggggh! “This stupid thing f#cking hurts!” But women don’t swear. Of course it hurts, everybody knows that, but don’t worry about it: after all, isn’t it true that being beautiful hurts? Don’t worry about the infections you’ll get or the feeling of being burned alive when you put on your special women’s deodorant (twice the price!) either. That’s just the way it is. And hurry up! You’re going to be late, and you don’t even have your make-up on! Thankfully, there are numerous tutorials on the internet. You manage to figure out the purpose of every powder and cream and, with the weird feeling of not being yourself anymore, you finally start to dress up. A bra, a skirt, a shirt, the first pair of tights you manage not to rip (“wait… why did I even wax, then?”, you think), black high heels, and you're good to go.
You have to turn around a couple of times to check if you’re being followed by a dog. Why do people keep whistling at you? You enter the subway and quickly realize how lucky you are to live only 5 stations away from work. By the time you almost run off of the wagon, 3 old men have touched you inappropriately and two have randomly commented on your look. Ugh, weirdos! And on top of it, the man sitting next to you had his legs wide open, making you feel uncomfortably trapped and squeezed against the wall. You couldn't have done the same, of course, since you were wearing a skirt.
Finally in your office! You start working as usual. At some point, your boss asks you to go get something for him. It's on the third floor. You sigh. You’re not quite sure how your feet have survived up to this point, but you still get up and start climbing up the stairs. You hear a hearty laugh and you remember to hold your skirt thight so that the perverts downstairs can’t see your panties.
Day goes on normally afterwards; only your back hurts like hell because of your bra. Don’t talk about it. Your pain will be dismissed, and women will tell you that you’re just not wearing the right size (which is also most certainly true). You think about taking it off, but you fear it will be considered inappropriate. You decide to go try a couple others after work, unsure, however, that you will be able to achieve this since you also have to go get a haircut. But don’t you even dream about paying the same amount it usually costs you!
By the afternoon, you're so tired you start doing everything wrong. People wonder if you're even competent for your job. Colleagues ask you if you’re there because of quotas, or if you’ve slept with the boss. You blush. They laugh.
You think about facing street harassment again when going to the party. You think about your sore feet. You wonder why in the world your friends ask you twice to text them when you get home tonight, and suggest that you don’t drink. You almost decide to give up on the party, but you also really want to see your friends. Plus, you have an amazing costume.
However, in the end, you’re not the one who gets to decide. Just when you’re about the leave the office, your cellphone rings. You end up not going to the party after all. Your partner has plans too, and someone has to watch the kids, right?
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