a woman. You can’t risk going out in public all ratchet and uncoordinated. Men won’t care, but other women will eat you alive—trust me, I know, I was about to be a woman for eight hours, that kind of makes me an expert.
I recognize now that the prospect of a jacked six-foot-two dude rolling into a party in high heels and makeup is frightening even under ideal conditions, but I had no idea then just how terrifying it would be if that dude had to do a poor man’s version of what a woman has to do every day and he couldn’t see himself as he tried to do it.
When I walked into the party, the reaction was split down the middle: Half the people were insanely impressed with my outfit, the other half looked at me like someone just let John Wayne Gacy into a Boy Scouts meeting. Go big or go home, I say. To Libra’s credit, she thought my costume was hilarious, which meant only one thing to me: It was time to drink.
Yeah, so here’s the thing about that: Getting drunk and going back to Libra’s pod while dressed as a woman left me in a very compromising position the next day. When I finally woke up, it was well into the afternoon, and Libra was at work because she was a mature adult who could handle her shit. With nowhere in particular I needed to be, I casually rolled over and grabbed some water from the side of the bed to start beating back the hangover that was fortifying its position behind my eyeballs. As I took a big, long, lukewarm drink, I spotted my Daisy Dukes wadded up on the floor, sitting there all by themselves, eye-fucking me. I could hear them in my mind, taunting me: Howdy there, stranger, y’all fixin’ to mosey on out of these parts? Fine and dandy…reckon it’ll be just you and me, huh?
Motherfucker. I had no clothes of my own to change into. I wasn’t actually embarrassed about owning the Halloween party, but I also couldn’t immediately recall what I said or did when I was there. In those few seconds of doubt, as I wrestled with the fact that I had nothing else to wear, a wave of terror washed over me. I was going to have to throw this outfit back on in order to leave. Talk about the ultimate walk of shame.
Somehow, peeking around corners and clutching my ill-fitting pair of high heels (which I refused to put back on), I made it to the front of Libra’s building without being seen. It was a miracle that I knew would not be replicated. As soon as I stepped outside, someone spotted me. I instinctively pressed my body against the side of the building to make myself a smaller target, but it was no use. Fortunately the guy who saw me was a friend. I waved and tried to whisper-yell at him to come over. At first he wouldn’t, because it’s hard to walk when you’re doubled over laughing, but eventually the desperation in my eyes and the mascara running down my face convinced him to do a little recon. With the appropriate amount of begging, he radioed my buddy to bring some of my clothes to Libra’s room and end my panicked misery.
All in all, the ordeal lasted maybe five minutes, but it was the longest five minutes of my life. Like running a mile while holding your breath. It brought my respect for women to a whole new level. You not only birth us and raise us, but you put in so much effort to look like a slutty nurse, all for our benefit, and when it works, the next day we make you find your own way back to the ER stat. I finally understood what every single shacker who has ghosted from my house at 8 A.M. has gone through. It’s fucking miserable. To you fine women, I’d like to say that I’m sorry.
When I got back to my room I grabbed an old towel and scrubbed off my makeup. Then I checked my email. My eyes lit up in horror when I saw this message at the top of my inbox:
Hey, you’re not going to believe this, but I just got orders to go on a surprise trip to your site. How crazy is that? See you in a week!
~XOXO
Scorpio
Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuckkkkkkkk. I forgot about the biggest problem of them all