A Vent

I think I may have figured out why I hate reading from a male’s point of view.  Men in books (and I’m not just talking Danielle Steele type novels) always describe women they’re in love with in a goddess-like capacity.  You’d think the beauties they are with were literally freaking Aphrodite, in girl next door form.  The truth, I’m a girl next door type.  I’m not Aphrodite.  Who the hell actually has the time to buff their skin until it glows and feels softer than silk?  Hell, I don’t have time to dry my hair most mornings.  My hair is tangled by the end of the day.  My skin isn’t glossy and smooth.  I can’t wax my legs.  Stubble happens.  And here’s the kicker – I try!  I get up earlier than I would otherwise have to so I can try to pick out some sort of outfit that makes me look like I didn’t get dressed in the dark.  I try to style my hair.  I wear make-up.  I use lotion.  And after working all day, coming home, and being super wife/mom for several hours, I lay down to relax and read a book and cue the scene in the book where Mr. Hero describes common place tavern wench as though she is heaven on earth and suddenly any bit of sex drive I might have had the energy for flies out the damn window because I feel like there is no way I will ever be like that at 9:00PM without several hundred dollars at a spa – and even then it’ll only last an hour or two.  So thanks male authors and male point-of-views for making me feel like I fail as a woman.  You suck.