With everyone buzzing about the Oscars tonight, I have a confession to make. I could give a chocotini who wins what. I’m a woman. I have a pulse. So hellz yeah I’m vaguely interested in what everyone’s wearing. But more than anything, I wonder—glitz and glam aside—how do all the beautiful peeps feel in their clothes. Like the bourgeouis dress me up clothes, they can’t be comfy, right?
Granted, the bp’s have much better duds, much better bods, and are much more poised than your aver-ahhhge hausfrau who has to forage for dresses at suburban Macy’s (gasp!). Pretty sure they don’t pretend running up stairs to fetch babies out of cribs constitutes cardio. (The mystery of the muffin top, revealed.)
To me? Getting dressed up is savage. It’s cruelty of the worst kind. It’s a crime against women perpetuated at every wedding, cocktail party, fundraiser, bar mitzvah, and work party. It doesn’t discriminate. If you’re a woman, you suffer. Period.
Seriously? Tell me there is anything worse than getting dressed up when you’re a woman.
You’ve got nothin’, right?
That’s what I thought.
Of course we feel good when we’re all gussied up, because looking good always feels good. It’s a confidence boost to know you’re looking your best and hey, having people say it out loud makes it all the better. And when People mag says it, well hot damn, you really are a bp. (But so far, despite being a loyal subscriber and avid reader, I’ve not received such accolades. I suppose since being a famous bp is looking unlikely, the only way I might make Peep is if I have like a dozen more kids and parade them on reality tv. Ehhh. I’m thinking no, my hair just can’t take those harsh extensions.)
See, if you’re like me at a social event, the glow of pretending I’m walking the red carpet wears off by appetizers and by then? I’m crying inside. Dying inside. 1,000 tiny muffin top deaths.
I’m hobbling to the ladies room hoping I don’t fall flat on my arse, or worse, my face. The entire time I’m waffling about when I should dare “powder my nose” because once I hit the loo, I’m not entirely sure I can put myself back together again. Somewhere between my bladder going numb and fearing I won’t be able to speed wobble in heels fast enough to get to said lavatory, I break down. For me, that’s after one drink. You read that right, one. Uno. A drink. One drink. (Thank youuuuuuuuuuu, labor and delivery!) Labor and delivery, 3. Muffintopmommy, ZE-RO. (It’s a damn good thing there’s a cute prize at the end of labor and delivery!) That’s right, I said it. And the Oscar for World’s Smallest and Weakest Bladder goes to….muffintopmommy!
WWBD? What would Brangelina do? Does Brangelina stress about creeping to the toilette? Just because you’re rich and faboo, doesn’t mean that you can ignore when nature comes a calling. But when it seems like all eyes are you on all the time, when do you go? How do you discreetly sashay from your seat to the lav in a jam-packed, televised event? And when you make it to the potty in all your fabulousity, who else is in there and what’s the chatter about? Do you think Angie is shifting her weight, crossing her legs, and tapping her foot praying Susan Sarandon hurries the hell up and gets out of the stall? Do you think she’s bitching about the line and grousing about her uncomfy Stuart Weitzman’s to Sarah Jessica and Mo’nique?
Because I know when I’m out, there’s no way I’m alone in all this. Even the skinny girls are kvetching in the bathroom about their pain and suffering, and you know they don’t have on half the under-ammo-cammo I’ve got going on. And while I’ve never walked in anyone else’s shoes, don’t stilts support 100 pounds much easier than (more than that, okay, just…. more than that!). I’m no physicist so that could be erroneous information. But still!
Regardless of size and shape though, we women all bear the dress up burden. I defy you to prove anyone–famous or not— really feels comfortable in high heels, dresses that bind and undergarments that truthfully, I think—nay, I know, the CIA could use to interrogate terrorists. Forget the whole waterboarding debate. You want a guy to talk? Stuff him like a sausage into casing with female muffin top reducing undergarments, shove him into two inch heels, force him to stand, smile and make idle small talk for hours on end while plying him with miniature foodstuffs and booze, reduce his bladder capacity and lengthen the men’s room lines, and…and wait…and then? Wait some more. Bitch’ll be crying like a school girl before the dessert cart is wheeled out. Oh, and do it in a cold climate, because in addition to the aforementioned flaws, bear in mind that most of women’s fancy schmance attire is not at all warm. (Hello, sleeveless dresses in winter in New England? What about that is not torture?)
You want Osama bin Laden? Just borrow some of my undergarments and shoes. I can picture it now…..
CIA OPERATIVE: “I’m going to put you in this support garment and these heels, and YOU WILL tell me everything you know!
BAD TERRORIST GUY: “No! No! No! I know what that’s about. You did it to my friend from the training camp! You will not do it to me. I’ll talk! I’ll talk. I’ll taaaaaallllkkkk!”
Sorry, but the Feds are overlooking some very valuable tools they readily have at their disposal. As a proud American, I’m ready and willing to answer the call to duty by emptying out my closet on a moment’s notice to help secure our nation.
I am that selfless. Yes, yes I am.
(Do you think Peep would interview me about my heroic plan to protect the nation?)
Either way, CIA, you know this plan is bitchin’. Cawl me. I’m in the book!