I'm going to level with you, I'm glad I'm not a woman. Because I couldn't survive today's society. I don't know how modern girls do it.

There was a time when the only things required of women were knowing how to fry bacon and popping sass-mouthed toddlers.

Not today.

Nowadays, to be a card-carrying female, you'd better be able to do more than Granny. To start with, you must have washboard abs, a blossoming career, a husband from the pages of Men's Fitness Magazine, children dressed in seersucker, and at least one expensive handbag.

And if that doesn't give you a nervous breakdown, the modern woman's household must be breathtaking. Her wardrobe: cute, but sassy. Her daughter must play piano. Her boy must compete in baseball, football, basketball, soccer, track, lacrosse, polo, skeet shooting, and speak fluent Spanish.

Had enough? I'm only getting started. Society also requires women to be gourmet cooks, preparing everything from Sloppy Joes, to blanquette de veau. And let's talk size. Today's woman is instructed to maintain

the lithe weight of a malnourished North Korean underwear model — with washboard abs.

Are your palms are getting sweaty? Mine are.

You know what I wish? I wish we allowed women to be themselves, for Christ's sake, Grecian curves and all. I wish ladies swimwear wasn't made of dental floss, that nineteen-year-olds weren't dictating fashion. I wish women of all shapes loved their bodies.

I wish we taught confidence to young girls, and taught young boys to help them find it.

I wish women took more spa vacations, and less sick days. I wish ladies considered gray hair and wrinkles as trophies, not things to cover up. I wish waist sizes weren't measured in numbers, that thick was the new thin. I wish women were proud to be round, firm, meat-eating knockouts, with real smiles, instead of whatever society says they should be.

And one last thing.

To…

[dropcap]I[/dropcap] know it's ridiculous, but I wish I could buy you a puppy. If you've got one already, how about two? See, I have this ludicrous idea that dogs could put an end to worldwide hatred, and perhaps even eradicate pissy attitudes.

Take my pissy fifth-grade teacher, for instance. If I could've forced her to wrestle a puppy, it might've cured the old battle-ax. Because whenever you wrestle a puppy, you start saying things in a high-pitched voice, like, "He's a good boy. Yes he is."

And that changes you.

There's something about puppy breath, too. I'll bet the smell of it could cure cancer, if scientists ever found a way to bottle it. And puppy bites. Even though they hurt like hell, they're worth more than real estate, or an all-inclusive cruise to Europe.

Well. Maybe not a cruise.

I wish someone would have the good sense to set up a booth on the street corner and sell puppy love. For five bucks a pop, customers could

wrestle the bejeezus out of a happy Labrador. There'd be a single-file line winding clear down the street. I'd be in it.

I once had a dog who demanded to wrestle after supper, every night. The old girl was persistent, too. She'd bark and carry on, then pin me down and sentence me to death by licking.

When she became arthritic, she still wanted to rough-house. But she was fragile. I'd let her pin me down, and lick the hell out of my face. Then, she'd collapse and fall asleep with her head on my chest.

I don't know why, but she trusted me, even though I'm proud, and self-centered. Those black eyes seemed to understand almost everything there was to know about me.

Then one day, she closed those eyes for good, while I cried mine out.

I hope God likes to wrestle.