I am lazy. I think that to most, especially my mother, this doesn’t really come as a shocking declaration. Sure, I get my school work done and I keep my room clean and occasionally I tear myself away from my laptop long enough to do what can only be described as a mediocre workout where I tell myself I’m doing abs but actually lay on the mats for an extended period of time, but to the well-trained eye, I am lazy.

My laziness becomes especially evident when it comes to getting ready and making myself “look like a girl.” I’m talking getting ready in the sense of doing my hair, putting on makeup, shaving my legs, and every other element in between. If it were up to me, every party would be pajama-themed and I would never have to release myself from the gentle comfort of my L.L. Bean flannel pajama pants and oversized, inexplicably stained t-shirt. Sure, I look some level of presentable when I go to class, but when it comes to getting all dolled up for a night out where I will probably—definitely—be ignored by every boys who walks my way, I put my foot down.

Honestly, therein lies so much of the problem: the boys. (When aren’t they the problem, though?) I do not think a single male recognizes the trouble through which we women go through to make ourselves look good. Beyoncé once sang of how “pretty hurts.” Daya once sang of how “girls seem to like the boys that don’t appreciate all the money and the time that it takes.” Well, dear male reader (and all my ladies out there who sympathize), I am here to clear away the mystery of how women manage to be hairless, pore-less, lump-less creatures when it fits their fancy—and no, it’s definitely not "natural."

Spanx

Unless you’re one of those individuals blessed by a perfectly flat abdomen and skinny thighs and skin not tarnished by the cruel lumps of cellulite, you need Spanx. Spanx, created by the angel among us Sara Blakely, are nude colored spandex that pack all of your unsightly lumps and bumps in like a sausage casing. I don’t know what entrails are, exactly, but wearing Spanx really makes me think about them. There have been reports that state that women everywhere should stop wearing Spanx or any other type of body shape wear because they do irreversible damage to your organs, but yet, here we are. I have three different styles of Spanx that I wear, depending on my outfit. They bring you down two dress sizes and help you squeeze into your goal size without having to diet or spend any time failing about on the elliptical. Spanx transforms you from a mediocre, typical woman to a flawless goddess who doesn’t have a single imperfection marring her appearance because God forbid anyone see that loving little pouch created by one too many donuts.

Body Hair

Alright, gentlemen, here’s a news flash: we women get body hair even before you do. While you’re anxiously awaiting that creepy upper-lip mustache to come in, or begging the gods that a single strand of hair erupt in your scrawny armpits, pubescent girls everywhere are searching for ways to hide the fact that they’ve got a forest sprouting on every inch of their skin. Legs and armpits are one story; all it takes is a razor and some shaving cream. Don’t even get me started on the price of razor blades. A pack of four costs twenty dollars, and let me remind you, boys everywhere, that legs are longer than cheeks. But that bikini area, your private parts, whatever you call it—oh boy, that requires more maintenance than a fancy sports car. Shaving is tricky business; many of us suffer from chronic ingrown hairs that make us look like we have some sort of venereal disease. But sometime long ago, some sadist decided that the only way to effectively remove body hair is through waxing. This means that, once a month, you fork over fifty bucks to have someone spread scalding hot wax on your unmentionables, while making polite conversation about the weather and classes, before they rip out hundreds of hairs from the pores on the most sensitive part of your body. And then you go make an appointment for four weeks out.

Hair Dye

Once upon a time, when I was a wee one, I had blonde ringlet curls that framed fat, rosy cheeks and that were bleached every summer from dancing in the glow of the California sun. Now, I still have the fat, rosy cheeks, but I spend most of my time inside, graced by the glow of my laptop screen and my blonde hair is courtesy of Margo and her skills with hair dye and a pair of shears. I am not a natural blonde. With puberty and body hair came a darkening on my once light locks, turning them from a honey blonde to dishwater brown. As soon as I arrived at college, and had my own bank account and free reign over my finances (which, by the way, is a HUGE mistake on my parents’ part), I scheduled myself a hair appointment to treat myself to those sandy blonde highlights for which I so desperately longed for. Well, folks, now a year later, I have pretty much bankrupted myself at the hangs of those who paint every strand of my hair individually so I can achieve the “perfect blonde.” Every six to eight weeks, I go back to the hairdresser so I can sit in a chair for four hours and have chemicals put dangerously close to my brain before I sit under some heat-dispelling fan that renders me incapable of hearing even my own thoughts. The worst part is, I don’t even think anyone notices when I get my hair down. It’s weeks later when even my best friend goes, “Wait, did you get your hair dyed?” And yet, I just booked an appointment for Thursday.

High Heels

Every woman with any sense knows that heels add the perfect aura of sophistication to any outfit. They make your legs longer and leaner and highlight those calf muscles you have toned so painstakingly every other day on the stationary bike. They make you anywhere from one to six inches taller, which can, inexplicably, make you look like twenty pounds thinner. I just posted an Instagram from my sorority formal and I swear to God, the heels I am wearing in that picture made me look infinitely hotter than I normally do. But the truth is, the only reason that I popped my knee forward in that picture is because my feet were covered in blisters and oozing blood and pus to the point that if I put any more weight on my feet, the entirety of the skin on my feet would rip clear off. It’s three days later and when I went to put on my Converse this morning, I winced because my toes are still that raw. I think that men think we enjoy wearing heels because when it’s a special occasion, we slides those suckers on and grit our teeth as we strut through the blinding pain that is, in reality, crippling us. Next time a girl asks you to hold her heels after a formal event, she isn’t trying to be cute. She is trying to get those Satanic contraptions as far away from her as humanly possible.

Underwear

I need a new bra because my trusty, Old Faithful, nude t-shirt bra is fraying at the strap as a result of too much wear. Upon realizing this, I went to my bank account and budgeted out fifty dollars because that is how much it costs to buy a single, high-quality bra from Victoria’s Secret. Then, upon opening my underwear drawer, I realized that most of my underwear is in desperate need of replacement, so that’s another $30 for five pairs of panties. By the time all is said and done, this trip for articles of clothing that I actually need (yes, Mom, I actually need these, unlike those printed flare pants I bought from Target, I realize that might’ve been an impulse buy), I have spent probably eighty dollars or more, after you factor in gas and tax and the Auntie Anne’s pizza pretzel I buy after looking in those 360-degree mirrors in Victoria’s Secret and my self esteem plummets. And I just want to say that taking off my bra at the end of the day is better than a personal pan of Stouffer’s macaroni and cheese. The second I rip myself free of those restraints, I am a loose cannon. I feel free and powerful and like I can do anything because there is literally nothing holding me back. Bras are more uncomfortable than running into your ex while with your new boo. And don’t even get me started on thongs. Paying five bucks a pair for six-square inches of fabric that shoved into a dark crevice on your body? Why do we do this to ourselves?