She walks into the office at 7:30 a.m., perfectly coiffed from the top of her head to the tips of her shiny pump-covered, polished toes. Her lipstick is flawlessly applied, her suit starched to attention, her hair impeccable. She has the whitest teeth on record and make-up that is seamless.

She goes into her office, and you mumbled, "b#$@@" under your breath. Why? Because you know that at 5 p.m.,, she'll stroll out of her office looking as perfect as when she walked in and this will provoke you into muttering another expletive that isn't suitable for print.

She's one of those ... the perfect, pristine-at-all-times woman.

I'm baffled.

I have to ask those women, "How do you do it?"

I get up, jump in the shower, get dressed and look in the mirror to assess my handiwork. My appraisal always falls into one of two categories: the "Umm...good work" category, or the "Screw it, I'm late" category. Either way, the same thing happens each and every day.

I hoist my purse over my shoulder (blouse shoulders creased, and I haven't even reached the door), run for the car (step on the hem of my pants and tear the cuff or twist my ankle or rub up against the crud on my car or ... I can't get to my car unscathed.), slide in and secure the seat belt (everything from the chest down is now wrinkled) and drive to work with the air conditioner blasting so my make-up will stop melting down my face as a result of the mad dash to the car or the current hot flash (pick one).

By the time I reach my desk, I look like I went through the ringer. Off to the bathroom to refresh and adjust.

Ahhh...okay, I'm presentable again.

But, by the end of the day...it's a nightmare picture of computer glasses digging dents into the sides of my nose, faded lipstick regardless of the number of applications, my hair drooping in spite of the hair spray shellackings it's endured throughout the day, and my withered, craggy clothes are laughing back at my tired self.

This is not self-deprecation. Oh, no, this is an honest to goodness curiosity about those women. I look around the office, and I watch the swarming masses of women in public and have come to the conclusion that I'm the norm. Their clothes wrinkle and crumple too. They have looks of exhaustion, hair that gave up the fight, and peanut butter hand prints on their slacks from the knees down.

So, on behalf of us normal women, I ask again, "How do you do it?"

Do you not sit? Do you not perspire? Do you spend the day in the bathroom primping? If so, let me know where I can get one of those jobs. Do you not have a dog that jumps up for some love using your panty hose for leverage? Do you not have kids with a sixth sense for dry-clean only who need to drool and/or projectile vomit the minute you finish dressing? Do you not have shedding pets whose hair refuses to adhere to every lint roller ever invented?

How is it that you can go to the gym and not look the least bit sweaty? Your workout clothes are also perfect, and your hair doesn't have the audacity to sag after time on the treadmill. You walk around the gym with a color-coordinated water-bottle (one for every color-coordinated outfit) sipping spring water without smearing your lipstick and making the rest of us normal women panting for life on the elliptical machine look bad.

Come on; give it up, what's your secret?

I hear the sound of crickets in the background ... you're not telling ... fine be that way ... us normal, every-day ladies are going to ban together, put our feet up, open several bottles of wine, toast our freedom from perfection and maybe even slouch a little.

We are occasionally envious. We are constantly befuddled. We take our hats off to you.

And, we always curse you.