You meet a girl. Maybe she’s pretty, maybe she’s smart, maybe she’s funny. Maybe your parents like her. Maybe you get really lucky, and she’s one or two of those things. I got ’em all. That’s a lot.[to Midge]
Life isn’t fair. It’s hard and cruel. You have to pick your friends as if there’s a war going on. You want a husband who’ll take a bullet for you, not one who points to the attic and says “They’re up there.”[to Midge]
Why do women have to pretend to be something that they’re not? Why do we have to pretend to be stupid when we’re not stupid? Why do we have to pretend to be helpless when we’re not helpless? Why do we have to pretend to be sorry when we have nothing to be sorry about? Why do we have to pretend we’re not hungry when we’re hungry?
Sometimes I tune people out, but mostly because they rarely have anything useful or interesting to say.
It’s the bras. And the girdles and the corsets, all designed to cut off the circulation to your brain, so you walk around on the verge of passing out, and you look at your husband, and he tells you things, and you just believe them.