Yesterday I saw a woman doing her best to try and walk in 4.5" heels. Never mind that they were hot pink pumps and she was wearing them with a jogging suit. But, as she high-stepped across the street as though the pavement were made of toxic marshmallow cream, I remembered a class that I had to suffer through in high school. We were forced at gunpoint to take a charm course. Since I went to a Christian school, it wasn't a charm course where you learned what kind of wine you were supposed to serve with lamb, or how to gracefully help your boyfriend put on a condom. Pinkies out, ladies! No. We had to learn things like how to properly pick up our handkerchief should we "accidentally" drop it right in front of the guy we had the hots for. Handkerchief? I was in high school in the 80s. Did they really think that high school girls in the 80s were using handkerchiefs?
We also learned how to: have a neat, orderly closet, gently wash our 'underthings' in the sink, curl our hair, apply makeup, talk on the phone to a member of the opposite sex, pose for a photograph, select the most flattering clothing for our body shape, and cross our legs in a manner that prevented us from flashing our beavers to all of creation. All of this was somehow pleasing in the eyes of the lord and would assure us a totally rockin' mansion in heaven, and we would get more stars in our heavenly crown than the non-charming girls. Amen to that!
Part of the course was about marriage. Because, all good Christian high school girls should never, ever have the dream of going to college or ever having a career. Oh no, gentle reader. The highest aspiration a good, Christian girl can have is to find a good, Christian man to marry, and then be subservient to him for the rest of her life while churning out 1.5 children every 3 years until she reaches her menopausal years where she finally snaps and kills her husband with an ice pick that she's been hiding behind the headboard for the past 22 years.
The only thing I remember from the marriage sessions of the course was that our instructor told us to never let our husbands see us pee.
It's funny, when I see that written out, I giggle exactly the same way I did when I first heard it in high school.
I, for one, firmly believe in this choice piece of advice, because the instructor that doled out this wisdom was very subservient to her good, Christian husband and had like a totally awesome marriage.
At least until she found out that he was boinking anything that would hold still. But, up until she found out, her marriage totally rocked.
So, there you have it. Girls, if you never let your husband see you pee, you will abide in wedded bliss, as long as you can overlook the philandering.
Take Care,
The Bablatrice - who is exuding charm at this very moment.
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