There are just some things that men will never understand . . .

There are just some things that men will never understand.

On impulse, my loving husband bought tickets to the opening night of a fun show, complete with after-party champagne gala and the chance to win a small diamond.   Fantastic idea!  And a great reason to dress up and make a night of it.  

Of course, I'm working late and suddenly realize that I had really better get myself ready for this shindig.  I work from home, so at least I'm already home.  But that seems to be the only thing in my favor.

Fortunately, I had laid out a dress the day before.  To my horror it dawns on me that this little black dress and the very warm weather both necessitate the wearing of open toed shoes.   I look down at my bare feet.  The last pedicure I had been to was a hazy memory, and my feet looked liked the victims of some sort of unfortunate bleeding leprosy.   I made a beeline for the bathroom to see what kind of damage control I could do.  

At the aforementioned pedicure, I had chosen to have my toe nails painted a fun, and very highly pigmented, black cherry color.   In several coats.  It seemed like a good idea at the time.  Now my toe nails looked like they had flesh colored potholes.   I daubed at them with polish remover and realized that this stuff was not going to go away without a fight.   

It was then that I turned to math as my friend.  If my nails were more than 50% painted, I would attempt to fill in with polish.  If they were LESS that 50% painted, I would try to pry the stuff off.    

I realized that my big toes were completely polished and that I stood little chance of getting all that pigment off in one day.    I decided to leave the big toes polished, and attempt to de-polish the other ones - Maybe it would look like a trendy fashion statement.  At the very least, it would look intentional, and my toes wouldn't look like they were being eaten by a cherry red monster.   And it was my only chance if I was to be ready on time.  

I went to work.  But it seemed that all I was doing was transferring a dark cherry red onto my fingers.   Soon I looked like I had dipped my fingers in hot oil.  Not good.   This was going to take a lot of nail polish remover.  And this is the same stuff about which my husband likes to say:  "Doesn't that stuff eat your liver, like, while you watch??"  

Still, I had no recourse, my fingers and my toes now BOTH looked like they were small bleeding appendages.  I kept to the task.  At which point, because I had spent so much time contorting myself to get this job done, I had the startling revelation that my knees were hairy!   Yes.

Now, it was summer, so I had been pretty good, generally, about removing hair from my legs.   But apparently I hadn't really paid close attention to my knees.   How does hair even grow there? I mean, it's pretty much just skin over bone. I have no idea.  I grabbed the epilating tool and started to fix this problem.   The clock was ticking.

If you do not know, let me inform you that and epilator is a wonderful invention that basically grabs hair and yanks it out of your body.  Unapologetically.   As I can't shave without covering my body with scars and looking like Sally from Nightmare Before Christmas, I have had to resort to the joys of epilation.   And by that I mean a million tiny tweezers searching for hairs and ripping them from the comfort and safety of their little follicle homes.  Fun stuff.

Fortunately for me, I was so high from the fumes of the gallons of nail polish remover that I had used,  that, well, let's just say that I was feeling no pain.  A few dabs with a styptic pencil (yes, there is blood involved) and I was as good as new.   And a little loopy.  All I needed to do was throw on the dress, find a pair of sandals, earrings and a wrap, and I was good to go.  

Oh, DAMN! There was no way that my brown mini-bag purse was going to go with this black on black outfit.  I ran to the garage to find a black evening bag and ran back to throw just the essentials into it.   Cell phone, ID, Credit Card, Lipstick.  Check, Check, Check and Check. One minute left to go.  

At which point, my husband wanders out of his office, and grabs a clean shirt.  He changes shirts while walking to the bathroom.   "Oh, darn," he says while looking in the bathroom mirror, "I should have shaved.  Oh well, guess I'll just go for the rugged look.  Are you ready?"

GRRRRRR.