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The
Un-Benefits of Being Female
Let’s
see … we get to bleed most of our adult lives, complete with cramps
and water retention. Then, when the monthly hemorrhaging finally
stops, we get to experience night sweats that leave us clammy and
wanting to murder someone from lack of sleep; hot flashes to make us
panic over a possible air conditioner breakdown in mid-winter and
crankiness that defies definition. We have the unmitigated pleasure of
giving birth; we carry pepper spray to the market for fear of being
sexually assaulted by anyone other than Brad Pitt and, oh yeah … we
get to work just as hard for less money than our fine-feathered male
compadres. I’m
not sure I like this anymore. Used
to be, I relished being female. I loved being a girl on a boy’s
playground. Figured out early on that the way to a boy’s heart was
through a ball … thrown, kicked or punched with a force the wimpy
boys would have given their left one for. I was boy crazy and I
had figured out a way to hang with the glorious ones. Thought being a
girl was pretty cool back then. Flash-forward
a decade and I was positively enraptured with my female status. Boys
were falling all over themselves to accommodate my femininity and I
liked not having to pay for anything, ever. (This will give you a hint
of the age I’ve become because nowadays, women are expected to
actually shell out for their share of the date. Let’s not go there.)
Then
we have love and marriage. I had the supreme fortune of planning a
wedding; dressing up in Barbie clothes and being the star of my own
show. That was fun. The only requirement of my future husband was to
stand there and look interested. The gifts were 99.9 percent for my
benefit. I got to open them and decide where they landed. This could
have been back to the department store for lots of cash, but it was my
call and hubby didn’t have a clue. This, too, was way cool. OK,
giving birth sucked. There is no graceful way to push a baby out of
one’s suffering self while maintaining sanity. Being shot pales in
comparison to being ripped from one delicate end to the other, all the
while trying not to make crass eruptions. Pleasant shit, that. Hubby
had to witness this, sure, but did he feel any, even one ounce of pain
or humiliation other than when I bit a good-sized chunk out of his forearm? Nope …
he cruised through that one, too. Twice. I
think the only thing women can be grateful for is not having to get it
up. Oh, and guys feel like losers if they don’t make a lot of money.
Oh boo hoo. I really feel bad for you, guys! We feel bad over just
about everything else, so bite me. In my next life, (which could be within the week considering the hell my menopausal body is putting me through), I think I want to come back as a guy. As long as I have a big, working dick, I’m pretty sure I can handle anything life cares to throw at me in my future macho image. I’ll even take out the trash and pretend to care about my in-laws. This is becoming my favorite (only?) fantasy lately. I would indulge in this daydream another few hours but my life as a woman beckons … the kids need the computer, my mother needs her medication and the dog is drooling for dinner. I’m going to pop an estrogen pill and pretend I have a life.
© Reality Mom - 2002 |
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