With sincere apologies to the Mighty Crumb for blatant phrase theft


And I was lead to believe that men don't really notice what women wear.
Or even that they don't remember.
Or don't care. For these are trivial things.
At the time my chagrin was immense.
It just didn't seem fair that we women have to go to such efforts to impress a man.
Lovely make up, a carefully selected outfit (not too slutty, not too prim), freshly coiffed hair even, when in the wild world it's the male's duty to look good (peacocks) and sometimes even to bear the children (seahorses).

Just how come we human females have been lumbered with not only both of these, frankly huge, responsibilities but also with the huge disadvantage of having to over-analyse everything*?

Last time I was with the Dreamboat I was in my element. It was just me, him, a cosy bar, some san miguels and a particularly cheeky drop of red. We jabbered away aimlessly and whilst reminiscing about the drunken shenanigans of a previous night out, in true PPQ style, I made some derogatory comment about myself.

PPQ: We ended up in a really expensive members only club, right?

DB: Yeah, the bouncers did a deal with me, that they'd let us in if we paid twenty quid each

PPQ: Wow. And the drinks were about 7 quid each.

DB: And it was full of poncey people......

PPQ: who were dressed to the nines. On a thursday, and I felt really out of place cos I looked like a right munter!

DB: But you were wearing jeans and a red top weren't you? You didn't look like a munter at all.

Exsqueeze me? Baking powder?
Just imagine my mortification on this realisation. He remembered what I was wearing that night? What did that mean? He remembered because he was thinking I had a shocking dress sense? That I looked like a hedge-pig? A swamp donkey? Hang on, maybe he thought I looked cute? Or hot? Or fat. And short. *see note above

More than three weeks after the event I am still afflicted with female-over-analysis. And I am just as mortified that he remembered!

Typical woman. Tut.

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