It's delusional to think that the length of your eyelashes determines the quality of your life. I think that bears repeating. So I will.

It's delusional to think that the length of your eyelashes determines the quality of your life.

Why did this sentence pop into my head this morning, fully formed and waiting to be shared? Two reasons. One, I am partying this weekend, celebrating life and love and freedom; death, and grief and loss. And so at one of the fiestas, I am dressing like Nancy Sinatra in order to sing These Boots are Made for Walking. False eyelashes seem to be a part of the period costume look, so I have been cruising them at drug stores, thinking about buying some, wondering if I will be able to put them on if I do.

I've never worn any, never tried, at least not that I can recall. The whole process intimidates me, from which kind to buy to how to get the little rascals seated on the lid. There was a time I would have thought this meant that something was wrong with me, that all women "knew" how to do this and therefore even though I looked all woman in the mirror, I was in some way broken.

Today I know it's not nature that gives gals the goods when it comes to femming up. In fact, something opposite to nature actually occurs anytime anyone heads towards her eye with a little furry caterpillar, determined to glue it on. This fact explains why men are just as good as women at doing this kind of stuff, and are even hired to teach us to do it, as in the case of Willy Ninja--gosh I think that's his name--who teaches the candidates to sway when they walk on America's Next Top Model.

Speaking of teaching us to walk, something you would have expected evolution to perfect, this month's Cosmopolitan magazine has a helpful article on how to stand our body shape in spite of the fact that we all know that Barbie is the only one who gets it right every time and deserves to be comfortable in her own--er--plastic coating. Women of my body type, according to Cosmo, should swing our hips when we walk. Oh wait, that might have been another body type. Argh, I forget! There I go failing the femme test again!

I was reading Cosmo in order to prepare for the first day lecture in Introduction to Feminist Theory. That's the only reason I purchase this toxic rag anymore. That I used to read it for "fun" and to "relax" simply blows my mind. There's nothing fun or relaxing about finding out that our world revolves around men and keeping them happy is our only hope for fulfillment. We're even supposed to watch them sleep to find out what feelings are revealed in their various nocturnal postures. Presumably we underlings can then use this information to gain favor with our superiors.

Myself, I wear a sleep mask.

Cosmo's also full of eyelash ads, mascara ads actually, each one promising more EXTREME lashes than the next. I'm starting to wonder if we've not reached critical mass, lash-wise, that they simply cannot get any bigger or longer or stronger or sexier. And so then what? Where will we have to go from there? Surely no man will want a girl with mere EXTREME eyelashes, perhaps turning to the more ocularly hirsute vicuna in desperation. (Those sexy beasts have some limpid come hither stares, I tell you what. I saw them all over Peru. Lucky country!)

Nope I don't really think that knowing how to maximize my lashes or my body type or my man's-sleeping-posture-interpretation skills will do me one bit of good, not in any way that really matters. To thine own self be true. Not to some guy's self be true. Polonius only gave this advice to his son Laertes, telling his daugher Ophelia to think herself a baby. But I am swiping it for me. To think own self be true.

And I know for a fact some time tomorrow night as I dance and sing under the moon and stars, those fake eyelashes will be torn off and trashed.

That is if I can even get them on to begin with.