Writer and McSweeney’s contributor Maeve Dunigan has poured a lifetime of effort into seeming effortlessly chill. The results have been… mixed. Nonetheless, Maeve still believes she’s one pair of leather pants, one perfect use of the word “bespoke,” and one jar of expensive olives away from self-actualization. She’ll never stop trying, no matter how bespoke things get (was that right?).
With sharp wit and unflinching honesty, Maeve shares her own misadventures—like the time she quietly endured a ruptured appendix at McDonald’s so she wouldn’t come off as dramatic—and explores the universal desire to belong. She invites readers into her world of One Direction fanfiction authorship and passive-aggressive yogurt mind games, detailing the anxieties that come with living in an age of constant visibility.
Both cringe-inducing and uproarious, Read This to Look Cool is a deeply relatable meditation on the absurdity inherent in the constant performance of ourselves, offering a fresh perspective on self-love and the true meaning of cool. We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from the book today, which is out now and available from your favorite bookseller.
I Actually Do Believe in Competing with Other Women
The patriarchy forces women into a state of competition with one another, and many modern women are opting out—overcoming societal pressures, recognizing the unique emotional complexity of female friendships, understanding that sex and gender exist on a spectrum, and choosing to see each other as allies with a common goal rather than enemies in an endless battle for attention.
And that’s fine with me. Because while those idiots are asleep at the wheel, I’m getting to work. You see, I wholeheartedly consider myself to be in an ongoing, ruthless competition with every woman on earth, and I’m going to win. I’m going to be the Best Woman.
Every morning I wake up, and my first thought is, “How can I maximize my time in order to make the most women as possible feel inferior to me?” Then I race my neighbor, Rebecca, out the front door of our building. Rebecca is a moron and, as far as I can tell, has never had the wherewithal to even realize we’re racing. I win every time.
When I reach my local coffee shop, I make sure that Gino, the twenty-two-year-old barista, compliments me. If he compliments me too quietly, I say “WHAT?” over and over until the other women in line can hear. If he doesn’t compliment me at all, I go in and out of the café, ordering different things, until he does.
Afterward, it’s time for hot yoga, where I am the best at everything. I change in the locker room the quickest. I banter with the teacher the longest. I sweat more than any woman there. If I’m bored in the middle of yoga, I’ll encourage the woman next to me to play tic-tac-toe on a pad of paper I keep in my sports bra. Suffice it to say, I win. Well, sometimes we tie, in which case I quickly dispose of the evidence by tearing the paper to shreds and snorting it.
By the time I get to work, I’m exhausted. Just kidding; I never get exhausted. I don’t even get tired. I barely sleep. I’m on nine prescription medications. Anyway, at work, I like to start my day with a lap around the office to make sure no one’s looking prettier than me. If I see a woman whose hair looks especially nice, I commence my plan. “It’s crazy hat day! It’s crazy hat day, everyone!” I shout, hauling out a basket of cartoonish hats I’ve stowed in the closet for this very purpose. With the crisis averted, I turn my attention to my male boss—it’s time to bring him his morning crème brûlée.
Satisfied after a long, productive day at the office, I’ll rest my chin on my boobs, pondering how to spend my evening. That’s right, my boobs are so perky that I can use them as a chin rest. Additionally, my skin is so flawless that I often disappear into flesh-colored walls. My eyelashes measure nine inches. My butt could kill you.
On Wednesdays, I go to book club at the local library, always arriving at least thirty minutes early in order to beat the women who keep trying to lock me out. When it’s my turn to discuss the novel, I begin by reciting the book word for word to prove that I’ve read it. Then I reveal, not only have I read it—I’ve written it. That’s right, I authored the entire book under a pen name, published it, distributed it to great acclaim, and covertly ensured it would be chosen for this exact book club. I do this every week.
Snuggled in bed each evening, I settle my laptop on the duvet for my nightly wind-down routine. I carefully compose a malware phishing email, which I send to hundreds of female CEOs. “Who are you? Why are you doing this?” one of the CEOs writes back. I just smile and add her social security number and credit card information to my running list. She’ll find out soon enough.