So you think you can be a woman?
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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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