Painful, painful afternoon today. I, like a total DUMBASS, went to a fashion show. I've been to these events before. They are always horrific, whether the models are actually models or just friends. It's a bunch of pent up everything. Women wanting to strut their stuff and have someone notice, women wanting to notice and appreciate (but not too overtly), and women wanting to be anywhere but home alone. And me -- a woman who loves to strut herself in front of spectators, who loves to watch her friends slide and slither around a pole, a woman who is learning to watch another beautiful woman gyrate on her husband. Talk about a mix-up in the head.
So the conflict begins. The public, high-brow fashion show is definitely the greater of the two evils I've outlined. What's wrong with a bunch of women gathering to eat salad and see the latest workout apparel? Well, everything. First of all, does it always have to be a salad? I guess so, because every time I've been served lunch with women, it's always salad. News flash: women like pizza, burgers and chili. I do love salad, too, but don't stereotype me and make assumptions, please.
So these uptight beauties have been primping and posing ALL WEEK. I know this, because I've seen them around the club. Walking, turning, pouting, straightening.....All of this in the name of NIKE? What a dreadful waste. I look at the show with such loathing and disdain. I feel my salad coming up my throat. Really. Why? Because if these gal pals of mine would just don a thong and a pair of pumps for about 90 seconds for their husbands (maybe add some lipstick, too), the pleasure factor would be OUT OF CONTROL. This, I know from experience.
I realize I'm not entitled to my feelings. It's really none of my business. But if you are reading this, you must be interested in my slinging, too. I have decided to become the cowardly voice of my swinging pals. Cowardly because I'm not able to be brave and public. So I say it's my business because they can call me a slut for wearing a low-cut top (behind my back, of course), but I can't tell them their whole problem is they care more what their girlfriends think than their husbands. Newsflash: your husband doesn't care half-as much about your imperfections than them women at your kids pre-school.