Dear Foo-Foo Girls,

You know who you are. Your hairdresser, nail artist and tanning salon are on speed dial on your cell phone. You wouldn’t dream of going to the grocery store in flip flops with yesterday’s hair in a sloppy ponytail. Your makeup bag is bigger than my suitcase and is organized by seasons. You carry a second bag full of objects of bodily torture: things that curl, poke, tweeze and exfoliate. You have things in your underwear drawer unrecognizable to the likes of me: bras that look like suction cups, underwear that lifts, spreads and flattens – or claims to be invisible. Speaking of underwear, you don’t just wear underwear, you wear under ensembles; you are color-coordinated from the skin up.

I don’t understand you. I used to laugh at you. Now, though, I am in awe of you. How do you do it? Where do you find the time? And, more importantly, how do you afford it? Do you take out a 30-year ARM to finance the girly-girl stuff? Borrow from your parents? Pilfer from your children’s’ college funds?

In preparation for the military baawwl I have shopped at the mall for the first time since 1987. I’ve been cut, colored, tweezed, mani and pedi-cured. I’ve shaved, buffed and bronzed. I am exhausted. The house is a disaster. I can’t remember my name. This foo-foo girl stuff is a full time job and I am putting in my resignation first thing Monday morning.

There is a reason I belly laugh through Miss Congeniality. I am “Gracie” – without the kick-ass FBI job and concealed weapon.

If, when I return next week, you see a post titled: All I Want is World Peace, you’ll know the damage done this week is irreversible.