Jeff, twenties, in a club talking to a male friend

Look.  I’m a woman, alright?  I come in.  I scope the joint out, right.  I’m checking out all the other chicks.  What are they wearing, what do their dates look like, is anybody wearing my dress.  Or anything remotely similar.  I’m comparing.  Sizing up the competition.  Figuring out where I fit in, in the pecking order see.  Am I sexier than that girl in white jeans?  Are my abs firmer that the chick in the see through top.  You know, I take this mental inventory of everybody in the place, who’s with who, the whole shot, just from walking in.  Can that guy do better?  Is he worth my time?  Would he give me the time of day if I approached him?  So, I’m walking in, right.  I’m taking inventory.  All these other chicks, you know what they’re doing, they’re checking me out.  This is natural.  This is the way women operate.  But this one chick, like every chick, this one chick, the one I happen to be with, she maybe has a little confidence problem. 

Chicks!  They all have these self-image problems.  They think they’re too fat cause all the magazines tell them they should lose those last five pounds, see.  So anyway, I’m this chick, and I walk in, scope things out and I start to worry a little.  There’s some good lookin’ women in this joint.  So then I start to think, did I remember deodorant, is there lipstick on my teeth, what did I have for dinner, anything that might get stuck in my teeth, or maybe my face is shiny cause I got that oil problem.  Maybe I need to powder my nose.  Not that a shiny nose means shit to a guy.  Cause it don’t!  No man, at least no straight man, thinks twice about a girl having a shiny nose.  So when I woman pulls out her compact and freshens up she’s not thinking about the men in the room.  Hell, no!  She’s doing it for the other ladies.  She’s tellin’ them, given them a little signal, she’s there to compete.  She’s got rank in the competition.  A real contender.