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You know, the fairy tales never do things justice. You get the boy meets girl, some horrible tragedy befalls them, they overcome insurmountable odds at the climax and finally, the happily ever after. The incredibly vague and cut off happily ever after, where the blissful couple rides off into the sunset, sets up in their castle built for two, pick flowers all day and get off on the sight of each other’s pearly white teeth.
Give me a freakin’ break. They don’t tell you about when the heroine gets older, her hair turns grey, she has wrinkles and stretch marks from popping out royal brats, her ass needs its own throne and she catches Prince Charming boinking the scullery maid in the closet. These tales need a warning, for the generations of little girls who have had their romantic dreams crushed. Disclaimer: Happily ever after is not for everyone. Happiness is not guaranteed. Romantic love comes with a risk of divorce, sexually transmitted diseases and betrayal. Your results may vary. If you would like a second opinion, ask your mother. If you want to be truly happy, lower your expectations. But we stupidly continue reading this kind of tripe to our daughters, because we think she’s cute, wearing her little pink princess gown, waving that plastic wand about while rhinestones fall off her tiara, clonking around in mommy’s high heels. And later, when her big shining knight on a white horse turns out to be a pimpled guy in a beat up Mustang, all we can do is shrug. Consider it a life lesson. Hope he doesn’t knock her up. What’s even more ludicrous is that we keep on falling for illusions, getting trapped in fantasies and false claims. We want to be beautiful, young and sexy. We want to keep Father Time’s lecherous hands off of us. So we buy stuff, the perfect solution in a bottle, products that promise to erase our wrinkles, lift our boobs, remove the gray from our hair, make us screw like a champ and adoring men bearing chocolate and diamonds fall at our feet. We purchase romance novels, with glorious, windswept settings, where the lady is feisty, has the morals of a saint and bosoms heaving right out of her dress. She is never padding around in a ratty robe, wearing support hose or bleaching her faint mustache. The hero, of course, is well-muscled, naughty but respectful at all the right times and frequently carries his lover off for marathons of ecstasy in candlelit, rose petal covered splendor. He never farts, burps or asks you to fetch him a beer. You never see a Harlequin with real people on the cover or a real sexual scenario. They’re freakin’ gymnasts, with honed physiques and freakish flexibility that enable them to make love in the shower while hanging from the curtain rod, without fear of drowning or concussion. And then you have the soap operas, where the women can get shagged within an inch of their life, get hit by a bus, suffer through a week long coma, seemingly die, be buried, dig themselves out of the grave just in time to stop their lover from marrying another woman and still come out with perfect make-up, not a hair out of place and fresh breath. Whereas I take an hour nap and look like Tammy Faye after a crying jag, hair by Don King. Let’s not forget the magazines, giving the assertion that yes, most women are a size 2, with that ‘gee, I just got back from the beach and I look terrific’ glow. These rare creatures would be better featured in National Geographic; they don’t exist, except through a filtered lens and whole lotta airbrushing and computer wizardry. Time for women to quit buying the lie. We stink, fart, burp, shit, piss, scratch, have dry skin, grey hairs, whiskers, cellulite, ear wax and varicose veins. We are too fat, too skinny, knock-kneed, pigeon-toed, have moles, scars and other blemishes. Our breasts are too small, our asses too flat and we are constantly in search of the Holy Grail of garments, underwear that stays put and doesn’t bite. We are, in a word, human. One size does not fit all. You will get old, you won’t necessarily be happy all the time and you may not meet the love of your life, and if you do, he will most likely have as many faults as you do. There is no such thing as perfect in our little kingdom. The last time I heard a man refer to the perfect woman, he was referring to one that you inflate. There’s food for thought. |
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