My hair is greasy at the roots and scraggy at the tips (but resplendent in between! Oh cruel distribution of oils, it takes three or four days for the grease to work its magic on the middle of the hair, at which stage the roots are reminiscent of an Italian’s chat up lines)
My feet are grotty. Bag those toenails… and I have callouses on my heels because when I was younger I rebelled against this idea of soft feet. Who wants soft feet? We put leather on our feet so they can walk on hard surfaces, and then we want soft feet? I wanna be able to run across gravel barefoot and fancy free. So my callouses are hardcore, horny little bastards that will take some fucking Gara Raffa fish or something to sort out.
My legs are commencing their winter coat.
My limbs are covered in mosquito bites in varying stages of healing.
My teeth are yellow and need a floss, but where is my floss? I don’t want to buy more floss, I have a budget. More about this later. I need to find that floss I already bought.
My moustache is about 3 days away from needing a wax. It’s ok… now. I can get away with it for a few more days.
My eyebrows are creeping over the agreed borders, violating the terms of peace. They must be removed by force.
My skin is pasty and anaemic looking.
I have blackheads all over my nose, big bad fuckers that will cost me a hell of a lot of time and pain to squish out, and then I will have nose leprosy for days as my skin panics and tries to heal its tortured surface. And then the blackheads will fill back up with crap anyway.
My belly is flabby and squidgy, although it is shrinking thanks to the kickass bean diet.
My bikini area.. is a disgrace. But fuck it, I give up. I actually give up.
There is no TIME for any of this.
I don’t even count fingernails as worthy of attention. But people do!
Who has time to constantly uproot the weeds, push back the hairlines, squeeze out the dirt, wash and scrub and exfoliate and cover up and peel off and brush and massage and work muscles and tone and tan?
Women with different priorities.
If tv and movies have taught us anything, it’s that a viable mothers day gift is a session at the spa, and that girlfriends will chew the fat together over the eliptical trainer or in a sauna.
These are not enjoyable things, but they are considered “treats” for women.
Women light up when you give them bath salts and moisturisers. Well, our mothers were always polite about receiving gifts, I guess.
But look at the equivalent male gifts.
Golf equipment. Novelty drinking items. Computer games or electronic gadgets. Sports gear.
FUN THINGS. Or at least, enjoyable things purely for that man’s hobby and his spare time. Nothing to help him keep the natural depreciation of his sexual stock at bay.
A man’s spare time (still in this tv- style universe, I know not everyone is like this obviously) is about HIM.
He reads the newspaper to find out what’s going on, he watches tv to enjoy himself.
Women’s sections in the newspaper are all about looking after yourself. How to best lose weight, tone up, smooth your face and improve your flakey dishevelled appearance enough so that those men who are reclined on the couch will find us attractive enough to fuck us, even though sex has absolutely fucking nothing to do with being shevelled (opposite of dishevelled? Meh, I’ll allow it) or smooth looking.
Ok I’m not getting at the state of gender roles or how ridiculous it is that women buy into this beauty marketing bullshit… because I’m a sucker too, so I can’t rage too much for fear of extreme hypocrisy.
What I’m talking about is- there isn’t enough time in the day for women to keep up to scratch AND have spare time for herself. And I’m a single woman with no kids.
I think you would need to be unemployed to have enough time to really stay at the required level of hygiene and neatness.
The time I have free to myself, is time I want to spend unwinding. It’s time I need to spent unwinding and de-stressing and enjoying myself. Admittedly my situation, lack of buddies and divorce and all that, does make me run for the escapism of tv and gaming.
I already have to maintain my apartment, and boy is that going badly, if I were to keep my apartment clean and my body impeccable, I would probably have time for one episode of a tv show per night. That’s it.
I wouldn’t be able to cope.
When you see some woman walking around looking all glossy- when you see a woman on the BEACH and she looks good practically naked, in harsh sunlight, you can tell right then and there that either her hobbies are things that make you look good (lucky bitch, enjoying excercise) like volleyball or swimming or some active shit, or she is forcing herself to forgo a good portion of her hobby and game time just to be able to look good on the beach.
So you know immediately, she is a joyless bitch. Don’t even look at her. Looking at her makes the chubby girl you can’t even see on the towel next to her, decide to be a joyless bitch too.
This is why you will go on dates with women who you are attracted to but they will end up talking about yoga or what they eat, because they have nothing else to talk about because their spare time is spent grooming.
Ahh I’m just bitter. But it’s normal, mostly when we are jealous of someone we find a way to be like “yeah they LOOK nice, but I wouldn’t WANT to look nice if the price is giving up my free time.” and then we can look down on them, and there is no more need for jealousy.
But I’m still bitter, because it looks like there are lots of girls going around who clearly have so little desire to go around looting in virtual cities that they can keep themselves in perfect condition. Isn’t the whole fucking point of living in the modern age, that all our whadjamacallems and gizmos are supposed to free up our time so we can do things we like? The industrial revolution didn’t happen so that I could spent hours inflicting pain on myself so I’d look good for some guy who’s perfectly free to slob around if he wants.
We’re supposed to have more leisure time than ever.
Now I have a mountain of debt, I look and feel like crap, I work about 45 hours a week to keep myself in beans and tins of tuna and my mortgage paid and my bills sorted (which I still can’t afford) and I’ll admit I’m bad with money, but come on modern age, throw me a bone!
And this little rant is brought to you by, I had to get a lawyer for my divorce. Shit got kinda ugly.
I thought it would be fun and exciting to have a lawyer. I thought it would be like on tv (this is a common flaw in my reasoning) that I’d be able to knock my bastard ex to his knees and my lawyer would kick him in the guts until he coughed up all the money he owes me.
Instead bitch lawyer from hell, with her hideously expensive but tacky clothes and massive belt buckle, waved away the money issue. “You can’t get that back. You could sue him but it would probably cost more to sue than you’d get back. Also if he’s unemployed, you can’t get anything from him.”
Oh. So… what am I paying you for?
Apparently the forms myself and husband filled in in the courthouse, while he leaked big embarassing man tears on the page, and I wanted to cry but couldn’t because I had been the hard bitch who broke up with him, those forms are all filled out wrong.
So now I have to beg him please come in and sign some shit with my LAWYER and he’s all suspicious and acting like I’m trying to screw him over.
So I sit here and rage about other things. Because I can’t handle the injustice that I am hugely in debt and a good whack of that is my husband’s debt, and if I don’t pay it, it’s MY problem, not his.
And that my lawyer has shattered my illusions of what the world of mysterious legal wrangling is really like.
And that I look like shit.
I actually starting writing a post a few days ago but it was massively depressing and I decided not to share.
This is considerably more upbeat.