Do you take as long to get ready on holiday?

So, I'm going to take your girlfriend's side in this matter, Jeffrey. (You don't mind me calling you Jeffrey? It's just that you read like a Jeffrey and not zingy enough to be a Geoffrey or even a Jeff). Look at your girlfriend when she inevitably appears to grace you with her presence after spending all that time making herself look pretty. She'll have taken a long shower or bath - or, crivvens, because you're on holibobs, she'll possibly have done *both* \- and she'll have spent a long time doing her hair. Whilst you matey, are just happy to scrub your Down Belows with some Lynx Africa and possibly a bit of Palmolive to whip the BO into shape and masturbated some Fudge wax into that receding hairline, she'll have carefully chosen her chemical exfoliants so as not to create a chemical fug that renders all sentient life into a temporary state of olfactory paralysis (ladies, I don't know how to tell you this: but Impulse is only worn by hookers and baby drag queens. Stop doing it to yourselves) but create a miasma of pleasing scents for your enjoyment as well as hers. Mostly hers. She'll have spent ages on her appearance not to please you, you silly twerp, but to signal to the other females that *she has arrived*. She wants *them* to see her. She'll want them to notice that she's appeared, groomed and primed for action (and not of the fun sexy-times variety). She wants them to look at her and think "Jesus fucking Christ, but that woman's not just got her eyebrows tamed and ready for action but *everything* else about her too". In short, Jeffrey: she's not doing it for you. She's doing it for her. The most you could possibly hope for in this situation is to merely sit back and bask in the radiant glory that is your girlfriend gliding through the room. Note that her clothing has been chosen by her to show off her best assets, and shock, shock horror, horror, shock, shock horror? You *will* shout yourself hoarse for her supernatural force (well, Maybelline and Chanel-enhanced force, let's be honest). Her timing will have been planned days in advance. She'll know the *exact* moment to make her appearance to make you go "cor!" - be it the golden hued glories of *the* final moments of the Golden Hour (ladies: take it from this poof - *learn your sunset times*), or the seductively wicked nascent shadows of the Blue Hour or even that moment when Greasy Marco the hotel DJ whaps on *Insomnia* by Faithless (a classic tune to make your clubbing entrance to. If you're from somewhere odd like Splott or \*shriek\* Hull, you can wait for the Mr Blobby song) - because *she* will know *you* and pretty much every other twit in that room will be watching *her*. You can just sit there and bask in her reflected glory, like a satellite trapped in orbit about a fabulous moon. Let's talk clothes for a second. Do you know what thought processes run through a woman's mind when they're picking out clothing for a holiday? Mostly it's "can I get away with wearing this on the plane or will they think I'm a high-class hooker" but also a combination of "I want to forget all of the myriad shit I'm putting up with at home and pretend for a weekend or two weeks that I'm someone else entirely, to let my hair down, to cut loose, to shimmy and shimmer and glitter and sparkle and *have some fucking fun,* even if I have to deal with Netto Gollum over *there...*" She's not dressing for your approval 100%. Oh, sure, she'll know to keep you keen and keep you happy but she'll know what looks good on her because she'll have spent possibly days, weeks or even months picking out clothes for her holiday and she wants to look and feel great and have a damned good time. Whilst you're happy as a pig in someone else's effluent to wear that tired old football shirt and a pair of oh-so-predictable white denims or football shorts, she'll want to be relaxed, carefree and feel fabulous. When it comes to those pictures that you'll take on holiday, she'll want them to be more than just a snapshot of your two weeks in Magaluf or Ayia Napa or wherever it is you are (Rhyl?) - she wants those pictures to be *memories*, ones that she can hold onto a treasure and smile fondly upon when she finds them buried in that shoebox under your mummified corpse in the cupboard under the stairs (you better not leak...) She'll want a decent picture of *you*, you ungrateful toad, that she can give to the press whilst she does that press conference tearfully begging you to come home (whilst looking coiffed and beat for the *gods*, honey) so you'll smile, brush that fucking *mop* on your head (that is, unless you're hair-challenged and thus balder than a genetically modified egg), wipe the crumbs from your t-shirt and prepare yourself for the inevitable *entrance*. Because, I can guarantee you this, it'll be 50% for her, 10% for everyone else and 40% for you. Now, shush. Yeessh. Straight men are *so* **bloody** *exhausting*.