I get jealous sometimes; I admit it. I am envious over “perfect women.” You know the type – meticulous make up, carefully coiffed curls, and marvellously manicured nails.
These women always look like they have just stepped out of a freezer – carefully preserved – not a hair out of place – perfect robots stalking the supermarkets and haunting the night clubs (no doubt looking for their alter-ego, the Perfect Man.)
Speaking of supermarkets, have you ever seen Perfect Women eat? Sitting in those chic restaurants in their perfect clothes with their perfect men, pecking at the perfect food (usually something miniscule, indescribable, unprounceable and unappetizing). And of course, they never pick up the cheque.
Of course, the perfect woman has the Perfect Wardrobe and perfect clothes have to slide onto perfect bodies. Thus the Perfect Woman’s workout was born. You’ve seen them at the gym, in cute little workout wear, with make up and accessories to match, lifting the odd weight or two. But does a drop of sweat ever mar that perfect face?
Just once I’d like to see a Perfect Woman crack. I imagine it would be like glass shattering, shards of makeup and hairspray scattering across the floor.
The majority of us are what I could term “Perfect Woman Wanna-Bes.” Our make up is meticulous for about a minute, our hair is perfectly coiffed until we do something harmless like sneeze, and are clothes are built for comfort, not show. There’s always something slightly askew – maybe our favourite handbag doesn’t always match our most comfortable pair of shoes. We are courageous (or foolish) enough to leave the house without make-up (thereby guaranteeing that we’ll run into Perfect Men). We have runs in our pantyhose and chips in our polish. We tend to be more at home on the sports field than the symphony, our favourite restaurant is McDonald’s, we pick up the cheque on occasion and we sweat (and if you are of a certain age, boy do you sweat). In short, we are real!
We may not be appealing to “Perfect” men (after all, plastic mixes with plastic, not iron or steel), but before you decide to overdose on Valium (the Perfect Women’s drug of choice), take heart -there are Real Men out there who don’t care if our handbags and shoes don’t match and who do take the time to look beyond the surface to the soul and heart within. I should know; I married one.
And isn’t that more important than designer hairspray?
(This piece was originally written in the fall of 1991 when I was single; I have revised it slightly and updated it)
You did, indeed, marry a “Real Man”, a good man, but please know that quality merits quality. Without question!
Perfect women…..hmmm….the ones you like to drive by too fast through the puddles after a rainy day!
Give me messy, unkempt, sometimes sweaty, dirty and yet authentic women who are ready to share and experience the messy, unkempt, sometimes sweaty, dirty and yet authenitic times in life, any day! Now that |I can relate to.