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It sucks to admit, but Jeffrey Lebowski was right about one thing. (Jeffrey Lebowski, the millionaire Lebowski.) He said, “Strong men also cry. Strong men… also cry.”

And then he cried.

According to my therapist, that’s a sign he’s in touch with his feminine side. Like Monty Python’s lumberjacks, you might like to chop down trees and eat your lunch and go to the lava-try. And then Wednesdays just go shopping and have buttered scones for tea. You’re still a lumberjack — even if you’re a LOT in touch with your feminine side and like pressing wildflowers.

I’m thrilled by this idea, since the girls and I have been worried lately we’re slowly turning into dudes.

We’re not. It’s just that the masculine and feminine energies in the world slosh around spilling freely like a cup in the hands of a baby. (Incidentally, this is the main reason you never hand a baby a full beer.)

It’s a matter of universal balance, the yin and the yang, the Milli and the Vanilli.

And that’s exactly what I’ll tell myself the next time I see my blonde fu manchu sparkling in the sun because I forgot to wax that shit again.

The concern isn’t just that some of us girls have started noticing the cute little whisker that showed up on our chinny-chin-chins at age 20 is now recruiting others — it’s the fear we’ll have big, bushy Civil War beards before 40. (Worse: circuses aren’t hiring like they used to. Dang economy.)

And it’s not just that we’ve lost some interest in putting on heels and lipstick and tramping about town — it’s that we’d rather be home playing video games or reading the “X-Files/30 Days of Night” graphic novel with half a pizza languishing in the box while the other takes up that last inch of stretching room in the boxer shorts we’re wearing.

(People are concerned America’s young men aren’t growing up, that there’s a burgeoning man-child syndrome, and every dude between the ages of 20 and 40 are an amalgamation of Seth Rogen characters. Nobody says peep about a lady-man-child syndrome.)

The girls I know don’t really call urban family meetings the day before a first date to plan out what to wear and where to go and where to draw the line between being a ho and being a prude anymore. We just go. And then we cut out of dates early and head back to the bar to complain about how guys don’t put out like they used to.

And in talking to dudes about this, I’m hearing it’s because by the time they hit their late 20s and early 30s, they’ve probably been in a long relationship or two and gotten their hearts smooshed — and now they’re realizing they might want sexytime to mean something. Turns out, women of that age have been in a long relationship or two and gotten their hearts smooshed also — but now we’re realizing we might want sexytime to mean nothing. (That’s some serious cosmic bullshit if you also toss in the wildly different ages men and women sexually peak.)

The posse of girls I run with don’t scream anymore when we see spiders or bees or mice — we smash them with our shoes, even if those shoes happen to be wedges. We fix lawnmowers and know what CVs boots are and talk to the hardware guy about electrical splices and butts (after we stop giggling.) We chop down trees, and eat our lunch, and go to the lava-try. But on Wednesdays we still go shopping, and have buttered scones for tea. Because we’re still ladies even if our inner dudes abide.

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