8. Fighting crime in high heels is just not practical
I can’t make it to my desk at work in high heels without rolling my ankle, let alone fight crime.
7. Hair styles that would never work in a fight
If I don’t put my hair in a pony tail when I workout at the gym, my hair sticks to my sweaty face immediately and I have to peel it back to see. Oh, but look, Rogue is wearing a sweatband- so, she’ll be fine.
6. Outfits that are so tight that they can only be painted on
Their outfits make my spandex pants look like snow pants.
5. Sports bras are never, ever worn
I need two when I go running.
4. Unrealistic body types for fighting crime
Lifting boulders daily- these women should look like fridges, not hourglasses.
3. Despite sweating during a fight, their makeup is always intact
I look like batman after he takes off his mask when I’m done my workout.
2. They all seem to have useless accessories
What on earth is that belt holding up?
1. Apparently, Double D’s are mandatory to fight crime
The plastic surgery clinic in the marvel universe is making bank.
Lexi always got on Jess about leaving the house with damp hair, arguing that apparently “air-drying your hair by leaving your windows down on the drive to work” was not an acceptable form of hair drying.
It’d been two weeks and three days since Jess heard nothing but radio silence from her flame, Chris James: the same silence that haunted their meals together the last few weeks of their relationship.
But Jess didn’t know it was over, really over until now.
After neurotically analyzing every inch of his profile while twisting in the agony of her unrequited love, Jess finally got her answer. Not from a phone call or a response to her regrettably meek texts asking when she would see him again, but from an updated status confirming Jess’ worst fear.
And now Jess wasn’t preoccupied with his updates anymore- she was consumed with hers.
“Jesus, even in your fantasies you shoot for the floor,” Nick said, holding up the ragged sleeve of Jess’ costume.
“Oh, the stars, that’s right, I’m supposed to aim for the stars,” Jess answered in the least mocking tone she could muster. After five years of marriage, Nick decided it was time to divulge his shameful secret- he loved Renaissance fairs. No, not loved, obsessed, he was obsessed with renaissance fairs. Nothing made him happier, he said, than dressing up in a historically accurate costume, eating a turkey leg in one hand and drinking beer from his chipped bull horn in the other. So that’s how Jess found herself here, dressed in a period-accurate costume as a wench. Something she never thought to put on her own bucket list.
Management Analysts are an unapologetic nerdy sort. Their love for plugging away on their spreadsheets and scrubbing endless data is pure and simple. Or at least that seemed to be the case in the nerd farm Jess was recently hired to work in.
Jess had no idea how she was selected for the analyst position. Had she successfully argued during her interview that her smorgasbord of past jobs actually entailed ‘analyzing data’? Even Jess was surprised when she saw the job offer in her inbox. But after unsuccessfully job hunting for six months, she wasn’t about to question the decision to hire her.
The noise sounded like air slowly being released from a balloon– or at least that’s what Elle thought.
When she heard the sound, her whole body was bathing in the warmth of his radiant heat; her arms coiled around his barrel chest, fingers entwined in a thicket of chest hair, breasts flattening with every perfectly in sync inhale. She was in a complete state of ecstasy; high on his virile pheromones and the scent of his musky cologne.
Lieutenant Smarmy was full of glaring contradicts.
But his impish and righteous nature somehow symbiotically worked together.
So, it wasn’t surprising when my fellow officer deceptively gave me a klonopin pill to calm my nerves before a jump. A pill which I gobbled up with many thanks after believing he had given me some knock-off brand Dramamine for my inevitable motion sickness.
Lucky for me, Sergeant Gargantuan had a particular talent for strong-arming crafty adolescent soldiers, stopping them from freely running circles around me.
Although, I’m pretty sure every once and awhile he would let one escape through the fence just for kicks.
The first – and most memorable – time I was duped by the cunning of
a young subordinate was during a weekend field exercise while on a routine nightly
security check. Sergeant Gargantuan and I happened upon a shirtless buck
private who was slothfully relieving himself on the side of a tent. From behind
the unsuspecting soldier, Sergeant Gargantuan barked, “Hey!” Without missing a
beat, the young GI turned around with his pants still wrapped around his
ankles, his pickle dangling in the wind, and started grasping at the air, as if
he was trying to catch lightening bugs, all the while murmuring, “Where am I?”
Panicked that he was sleepwalking – a health issue I knew nothing
about – I started screaming, “Medic!” Unsure what else to do, I proceeded to
run around like a chicken with its head cut off, yelling at the top of my
lungs. When I finally returned with the drowsy medic, Sergeant Gargantuan was
standing over the soldier who was now doing pushups, his pants still wrapped around
Words were unnecessary to convey what Sergeant Gargantuan was thinking about me at that moment. His glower said it all- fucking noob. Making me stew in my shame for several minutes as he hovered over his kill, Sergeant Gargantuan finally pointed down towards the pantless soldier dripping in sweat and stated the now obvious:
A humorous and unapologetically honest look into the Army from the female perspective.
Even on my last day, as I waited to sign the form releasing me from the military constraints I put on as a wide-eyed, snot-nosed college graduate, I was asked the question that plagued my entire seven years of service as a Military Police Officer: “So, was it hard being a woman in the military?”