“Beauty is pain,” goes the saying. So we all believe it and repeatedly endure discomfort, bleeding, blisters, and the like. Which begs the question: what the fuck is wrong with us?
The truth? Fashion is a big, beautiful bitch. And we all want to be her friend.
I present to you a list of some of the most annoying, unforgiving, unfortunate, un-Godly, disgusting, painful, and horrendous daily fashions we convince ourselves are “totally worth it.” And they are (insert half-convincing smile more closely resembling taking a shit).
- New Bras I hate new bras. Other than them being nice and shiny and purrdy and not woof-tastic and limp like the old ones they replace (Sounds like a penis reference, don’t you think?), they are literally the worst. A few years ago, I worked at a bra store. I measured boobs eight hours a day (Gentlemen, I know you’re jealous, but really – if you saw the amount of sag I did, you’d be begging for dick). In that time, I also became quite well versed in bra quality and fit. So I know exactly how a bra should fit when you first buy it and exactly how it should support your twins. I finally bit the bullet and splurged on a new “holds-em-from-floppin” to replace aforementioned saggy bra. I bought the exact same one, same color, same size, same errythaang. But said bra is what we call “strapless.” It has silicon liners on the band to keep it from slipping down and causing an unfortunate nip slip. I know that after some time, the bra will stretch and inevitably mold to my body shape. But right now it feels like someone has taken a torture belt of nails, strapped it to my ribcage, and is slowly tightening it hour by hour until A) I can’t breathe, and B) I have deep red marks resembling those of post-pregnancy. Bottom line: new bras make wandering around in a secluded village wearing only a loincloth exceedingly attractive.
- Nylons I wear tights all winter long. I have no problem with tights. I find them to be quite comfortable and the perfect addition to any outfit. But when I wear nylons, I swear to God I chafe. What the fuck. Isn’t the idea that if you have a piece of cloth between your thighs, your thighs don’t stick together uncomfortably or cause pain/rubbing/soreness/any other unfortunately disgusting adjectives you can think of? Right. Well. Nylons don’t do shit. They apparently missed that memo. After one day of wearing these God forsaken pain inflicting enemies, all I want to do is never wear skirts again. Damn you corporate dress codes.
- Peep Toes Peep toes. The name itself is just too cute! And how cute is it to wear a pair in the summer – just a little flair to show that “Yeah! That’s right! I AM wearing sandals! Woohoo! I love life!” Until Father Time rears his ugly fucking head and emits a deep throaty laugh. After merely walking a little around the office (RE: bathroom breaks, lunch breaks – aka, next to no walking), the edges of the “peeping toe” are like barbed wire, cutting into the sides of your toes with no mercy. Then you try to balance out the pain by pulling your feet to the backs of the shoes to eliminate pressure. But take one step and BAM! It’s back to hell you go. This, of course, is made even worse if wearing heeled peep toes. I wouldn’t condone this pain even if Fifty Shades of Grey said it would make me experience the big O in less than 5 seconds. Because frankly, if E.L. James said such a heinous lie, I would know she had clearly never worn a pair of peep toes.
- Spanx I fucking love the magical illusions that spanx create. It’s the miraculous solution to FUPA, the antidote to cellulite, and the cure for love handles. Smooth is the name and sexy is the game. Meow. But what it takes to get in or out of a pair of spanx, well, let’s just say that’s better kept in the privacy of a woman’s closet. If you decide to wear a pair on a date because it makes that dress go Va-Va-VOOM, just be prepared for an extended moment of awkwardness should anything progress to the bedroom.
“Mmmm (kisses neck, reaches under dress for edge of panties…can’t find them because edge is located right underneath boob line…looks up at you in confusion).” “Oh, ha, um…let me help you (puts on weird trying-to-hard-to-be-seductive-to-take-the-attention-off-the-fact-that-once-these-spanx-come-off-the-rolls-come-out-to-play)…it’s just my catsuit! Hahaha.” “__________________.”
To answer the question that all men everywhere are at this point begging: yes, women are insane. No, we don’t dress to please you. We dress to please other women; and no, we’re not all raging muff divers. Our obsession with shoes is kin to your obsession with March Madness. You have basketballs. We have purses.
Style on biddies. And make sure to throw a few bandaids in your clutch. That bitch can strike at any moment.