But don’t take my word for it

I do not get women. And I’ve come to sad the acceptance that it is pointless to even try. Women don’t understand women. So, as a man, what chance do I have? 


They might as well be from another planet. I get the feeling, in fact, that they are on their own time-zones. Five minutes is not five minutes, believe me. Not when you are picking her up on a date -- five minutes is at least half-an-hour.  


But knowing that does not give you the license to be 30 minutes late for the pick-up. You wait. Your time is not as important as her time.


And don’t think I didn’t try to understand the other half of the human species. I spent a good portion of my young life trying. And now, before committing anything to paper, I did all the necessary research. Obviously, that means consulting the sages of Hollywood. 


Remember that chick flick “Bridges of Madison County”? Damn! Girlfriend duped me into watching that. It had Clint Eastwood, she swore. And I, the fool, expected Dirty Harry and not a dirty old man. But I digress. 


The funniest scene (yes, funny!) was the one when Meryl Streep was serving Clint, or Robert Kincaid if I remember correctly, what was supposed to be their last breakfast together. 


She had one of those crazy chick moments. You know, when she gets all upset for no apparent reason. But clearly, all she wanted was for Clint to ask her to run away with him. 
Why? So she can say “no”. 


And that sums the movie up. Women want men to want them so they can reject them. Now tell me, does that make sense?


But here’s what I really don’t get. Why do I have to tell a woman she looks nice to get on her good side?


What? She doesn’t know?  She doesn’t have a mirror at home? I am willing to bet that she’s got a mirror on her purse, right now. 


So why does she need the confirmation from a guy who is obviously biased and subconsciously motivated by the urge to get into her pants? 


Some women are not that easy. They’ve evolved a more advanced bullshit detector. You simply can’t tell them that they look nice. No, I’ve learned, again from the movies, that you have to compliment her shoes. This is more honest, apparently. 


She bought them, of course she thinks they’re nice. Who am I to debate that? What value is there in my opinion, a man who really doesn’t care much for shoes? I wouldn’t know a Manolo Blahnick from a Marikina Bandolino.


High-heels, now that’s one practical joke that maybe has outlived its humor. Come on women, just stop wearing them. We don’t care. We just don’t. Stop punishing yourselves. And stop blaming men for that cruel joke. 


I, on behalf of all men around the world, do hereby declare that you are no longer required to wear high-heeled shoes from this day onward. 


There, it is now official. Now go buy some sensible tennis shoes. If Maria Sharapova can work it, so can you.