Date Night

I love watching my girlfriends get ready for a date. It’s my favorite reality television station. In the event of blossoming said face and body appearance, their personality is stripped down to bare essentials; and I feel closer to them.

Take Anna Elizabeth for example. When she opened the door, her face an explosion of acne medication, and curled estrogen hair, she exclaimed, “Have you ever seen me this nervous?” as she balanced a cigarette between her glass of Armagnac brandy and besmeared nail polish, “I mean look at me!”

The bedroom scene is the climax before commercial break. A woman makes a complete feminine example of herself, as she tries on every single pair of clothing amalgamations, before ultimately selecting the first combination she tried on. Even though she’s been thinking the sexy-simple-little-black-dress would be perfect, she’s procrastinated trying it on until this moment, because, that’s what it’s all about. Not to mention the factors that can switch the outcome, such as the number of tortilla chips consumed that day.

Leaning over the counter top to get closer to her alter ego in the mirror she says, “I think if a man is walking through a forest, and no woman is there to hear him, he’s still wrong.” Based on this conversation starter, I can tell that she’s, at least, an eight on a one through ten scale of nerves. It’s the best system. If my girlfriend is bashing the man, I know she really likes him, and if she’s praising him? She’s more excited about getting gussied up for a man, rather than for one in particular.

Men are like aneurysms in a woman’s brain; motor control is lost, and impediments of speech begin. She’s depending on her heart to keep the rest of the organs alive.