I am looking for an Afghan woman pen pal. I’d like to say that I am being altruistic and globally oriented, but frankly, now that they have gained a few freedoms, I have a deal to offer her and I’m hoping to hook her up with a major fashion designer at the same time.
To offset any inkling of misunderstanding by my readers, you must know how I, like any red-blooded American woman, feel about women anywhere being forced to do anything. Having your every breath dictated by self-righteous, hateful fanatics goes way beyond hideous. Nevertheless, you will probably notice that it is primarily the younger women who are whipping off their head-to-toe robes, called burqas, at the first opportunity. The older, rounder, wiser women are seeking their freedoms elsewhere.
The first step in my plan is to send my new friend several large, self-addressed, postage-paid boxes, which I hope she will fill with burqas of every color. Send them straight to me. Don’t even worry about laundering them first. The moment I saw those muumuus to the 10th power, I began to salivate.
If I could succeed in making those fabulous, hide-every possible-figure-flaw outfits a new fashion trend for my over-60 crowd, I would be a happy woman. I want one for my bad hair days, one for my feeling fat days, one for days when my face is blotchy, one for days when I’m in a hurry, days when my legs are hairy and one for days when I just don’t feel like getting dressed.
In return, I am prepared to send her some swell things she may not have yet. Let’s see. I’ll toss in both my curling irons, all my setting gel, my steam rollers and my frosting kit. If there’s room, I’ll pack up my control-top pantyhose, some Spanx, Wonderbras and high heels. In the same box will go my razor, shaving cream, hair-remover cream and SPF 90 sunscreen.
I mustn’t forget to offer up my $40-a-bottle foundation, powder, spot cover, my eyeliners, three eye shadows, mascara, lipsticks and blush. I think my fingernails will still show, but I generally ignore them anyway.
My new friend can have all my belts and anything with buttons, zippers or hooks.
I know. It’s not a fair trade, so I’ll try to slip in some fuzzy slippers, a big fluffy pillow, some classic novels, maybe a pair of comfy, flannel PJs, a portable CD player with her favorite music, a few quarts of Haagen-Dazs, corn chips, several pounds of bon-bons, a Nordstrom credit card and a weekly cleaning woman.
Let’s show these women what freedom really means.
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