Measuring Up

A few years ago while watching Oprah, I heard someone say there’s a rule that if woman is standing up there’s supposed to be a space between her thighs. Oprah was shocked, as was I. A space? How big? I’m sure that if someone used a microscope they’d probably find a molecule or two separating my right and left thighs, a molecule that keeps my legs from chirping like a cricket when I walk down the street. But there’s not enough space to say, shine a light through. What’s the space for anyway? So men can watch the game when we’re standing between them and the TV? Or are we supposed to store a roll of stamps – or paper towels, depending upon the size of the space – in between our thighs in case of an emergency?

Isn’t it funny (insert your choice of alternative words for “funny”: “irritating,” “annoying,” “unfair,” “justifiable homicide”) how we women have  “body rules” and men don’t? It’s no wonder we’re the ones buying control top pantyhose and body-shapers, while the guys walk around thinking they’re perfect just the way they are. That’s because their bodies aren’t cramming for a pop quiz every day.

A friend of mine, who should know better because she’s at least my age, told me there’s a “Perfect Leg Test” for women too. According to the experts (I assume these are people who don’t have jobs and therefore have too much spare time on their hands), there should be a four inch difference between the circumference of your ankle and your calf, and a seven inch difference between your calf and thigh. Says who? Really, who are these people who run around measuring women’s ankles, calves, and thighs? Perhaps they’re an offshoot of the What Not to Wear squad?  After I heard about the test, I thought about measuring my legs for about a nanosecond before I realized that (a) I don’t know where the measuring tape is and (b) I really don’t care. If worst comes to worse, I’ll just start wearing padded socks to make up the difference.

Most guys could care less about the circumference of their calves and thighs. They operate on the “Do my pants fit?” principle. If they do, fine and if not, the dryer was clearly set too hot again.

Then there’s “The Pencil Rule,” in which you put a pencil under your breast and if it stays where you put it, you need a bra. If it falls on the floor and lands where the cat coughed up a hairball, you need a new pencil. Imagine the guy who developed this test (I’m sure it was a guy). He probably thought of using a number of different objects before he came up with pencil:  “Paper clip? Always falls to the floor no matter how well-endowed the woman is. Frying pan? Too heavy. Telephone? Hasn’t been invented yet…”

Men don’t have a Pencil Rule either, even though I’ve seen a few who could use a bra (or two). When looking at their chests, men rely on the “They’re not breasts, they’re pecs, watch me flex them” policy. Ah testosterone, we women could all use a little more.

Of course, the rules don’t end with our bodies. There’s also the “Cyclops Test.” To take this test, we women are supposed to picture a third eye between our two eyes (if you already have a third eye, I’m sure there’s another test for that). If there’s not room for a third, your eyes are too close together. I’m not sure what you’re supposed to do if you fail this test; I’ve heard of having your eyelids lifted but is there something that lifts and separates the eyes themselves? Or are we supposed to use eyeliner out to our ears to give the appearance of “normal” looking peepers? Me, I wear mirrored sunglasses 95% of the time anyway so no one can tell where my eyes are.

If you can possibly focus those too-closely-set eyes of yours, there’s the “Halo Test.” You’re supposed to stand in front of a mirror, turn off all the lights, and focus a flashlight down on the top of your head. If you appear to have a halo, then you have split ends! Have you ever even once heard a guy talk about his split ends? Or, for that matter, how wide his eyes are?

I hope no women, no teenagers, no young girls take this stuff seriously, but unfortunately, they do. We need to teach our sisters, our daughters, and our friends to use the guy test when it comes to our bodies:  “If it ain’t broke, it’s perfect.”

My new book

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Leigh Anne Jasheway’s new book, Date Me, Date My Dog: Finding Mr. Right for You and Your Pack is available from Kimberley Cameron & Associates on Amazon for Kindle today! It’s doggone funny, filled with good advice, partial proceeds benefit Greenhill Humane Society in Eugene, Oregon, and smells like chocolate. Okay, maybe not the latter so much 🙂 PLEASE buy a copy, tell all your single dog-loving women friends about it, write a review, or all of the above. http://www.amazon.com/Date-Me-My-Dog-ebook/dp/B00C15TTVS/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1364302749&sr=8-3&

Ex-squeeze-me

One of the advantages of aging and having your breasts sag slightly lower than they did when you were, say 3, is the your annual mammogram is a lot easier. It’s not so hard to pull your breast tissue away from you body, when it’s already been headed in that directions for years. Mine have moved so far south, they’re living in a trailer park in Arkansas, drinking Lone Star and watching Wheel of Fortune.

For someone whose first mammogram caught on fire (you can read my Erma Bombeck award-winning piece about that here: http://www.accidentalcomic.com/columns/firstmammo.pdf), Friday’s visit to Jiffy Squeeze and Lube was uneventful. Well, there was another, much younger, woman named Leigh Anne there. I’m sure she spelled her name differently, but because both of us disrobed and made it to the waiting room with our stretchy keys around our wrists at the same time, there’s always the chance that our results will get mixed up and I’ll get a phone call from the mammography tech asking me how I’ve managed to get my boobs to be young and perky again. A girl can hope.

Oh, and the tech did tell me I have incredible pec muscles. She may have been flirting, but I’m never sure. I attribute my fine musculature to walking three dachshunds who always insist in traveling in opposite directions at great rates of speed whenever a squirrel crosses the road. Who needs the Mark Eden Bust Developer? Actually, who, besides me, even remembers it?

I hope to get a phone call on Monday from a nurse telling me that everything is fine. If so, I’m going to order a copy of the photos and send them to Seth McFarlane, so he can add them to the “We Saw Your Boobs” song the next time he feels compelled to sing it.