Ok. I am officially over myself. Sorry for being so…under myself. I assure you, it was just as uncomfortable for me as it was for you. I have decided that my job is just that—a job—and while it’s never going to be fun, exactly, it could be much worse and besides—IT ENDS IN ROUGHLY FOUR MONTHS! And also, The Decemberists are The Decemberists. That is to say, they are wonderful and I am very lucky to have been gifted with tickets. (Stay tuned for more evidence of my mind blowing deductive powers! Up next: Matter! Is Matter! Are you reading this Scientific American? I am about to rock your world.)
So. Moving on. Tomorrow night I will be attending the second in a series of Ladies Nights. Do you know what I love about Ladies Night? This is going to sound sarcastic, but I mean it in the purest, most sincere way you can mean something. I love that when you get seven women together in a room, they will inevietably end up talking, at length, about two things:
- Their hair.
Always! It doesn’t matter that we all have college degrees. It doesn’t matter that some of us have Master’s degrees. It doesn’t matter that collectively the seven of us probably spend $200 on hair care in a YEAR. It doesn’t matter that one of us is already married, and the rest of us are not planning on getting married anytime soon. None of these things matter. And I love this.
It’s like we are so careful the rest of the time to make sure we are NOT THOSE GIRLS, that the moment we realize there are no boys around, we BECOME THOSE GIRLS. And it’s strangely freeing. It’s an interesting phenomenon, because really, the men in our lives, the males we’ve surrounded ourselves with and chosen to spend our time with—they are hardly chest thumping, uber-MEN with quaint little chuavenistic ideologies. They respect us. They know we are smart and equal and all of those things that (some) men used to not know. It’s not a question of them, really.
Which is why its so fascinating to me. And the fact that it’s so fun. I don’t generally want to talk about color schemes or flattering cuts or ‘motifs’. But for a couple of hours, sitting surrounded by other women, with the wine flowing and the cheese and the chocolate begging to be consumed, weddings can become fascinating. Spas become scintillating, and suddenly I find myself giving tips on good pedicures, even though I’ve only had one in my life and it was free. You can practically smell the estrogen in the air, and right after you get over the grossness of that little olfactory gem, you just want to settle in for a great night.
Unless of course we end up at Kit Kat’s again. There’s a wii in her living room. And Ladies Night be dammed—nobody can be content talking about weddings when they have the option of pretending to punch tiny legless people in the face.