As a disclaimer, I do not consider myself a die-hard
feminist. Or a man-hater. And rest easy gentleman, this is not a
man-bashing rant. I prefer to think of
it as a teaching opportunity for you to take back to the cave and share with your
male counterparts who might still live in the 1920’s. I know many of you are civilized and are
aware of the fact that we are more than baby-making machines with the sole
purpose of pleasing you and making you sandwiches, but even the most liberated
of men still seem to judge us for our tendency to be a little emotional and
sensitive.
So this one is for the men out there. Your wives and girlfriends have probably
given up on trying to explain our mood swings to you in an effort to avoid the inevitable
eye roll, dramatic sigh of exhaustion, and condescending comments that you give
us when we have the audacity to express ourselves. I, on the other hand, don’t give a damn if I
offend you. So listen up boys, I’m going
to explain to you once and for all why we are the way we are in hopes that you
realize there is more to us than what you learned in your high school sex ed
class.
First of all, being a woman is hard. And I don’t mean because of the pregnancy
thing. 24-36 hours of labor is the least
of our problems. What I mean is it is a
LOT of work. All. Of. The. Freaking.
Time.
Let’s start with the masochistic ritual known as hair
removal. Shaving for men is optional. In fact, I have heard of countless bets where
you bet each other NOT to shave. Women would take that bet in a heartbeat and
happily grow our leg hair out to lengths that would require a separate bottle
of conditioner and an extra comb.
However, our society, as a whole, frowns on this. As a result, most of us pluck, wax, and rip
our hair out on a regular basis. I have
personally chosen waxing as my source of self mutilation so I feel that I can
enlighten you on the experience. Waxing
is painful. And sticky. On one occasion, I actually glued my labia
together while attempting to wax my bikini line and then glued my thigh to the
shower floor when trying to undo the damage.
And I didn’t even remove a single hair!! Those ladies who are more coordinated than me
might succeed in yanking their hair out by the roots. However, even a successful waxing session
usually results in a deafening scream that results in the cute, concerned
neighbor coming over to find you curled up naked in the fetal position or frantically
rubbing aloe on your lady parts.
After we have adequately tended to our waxing wounds, we
then proceed to spend 30 minutes putting on makeup and using scalding hot tools
at an alarmingly close proximity to our scalp.
We sometimes suffer from second-degree burns while attempting to look
like the airbrushed women you drool over in magazines. And we haven’t even gotten dressed yet. When we do, this usually consists of
something tight and uncomfortable with undergarments that rival ancient
medieval torture devices. So the next time I’m crabby and you ask me
what’s up my ass, I will tell you. It’s
a half-inch wide piece of material that feels like a permanent wedgie and
chafes my butt crack. Yet I paid good
money for it so that you can’t see my pantylines because apparently that is
unattractive. You won’t hear me judging
you when your boxer briefs slip down and I can see the crack of your ass every
time you bend over. But, no, by all
means, I’ll spare you those pantylines. We then proceed to put on shoes that force us
to walk on our toes as though we are auditioning for the New York City Ballet
and polish everything off by wearing a 10-pound purse that holds the Band-Aids
and aspirin we will inevitably need to make it through the evening. And since we have to carry this scoliosis-causing
bag anyway, please, allow us to carry all of YOUR crap for you too.
Now, it’s not all bad. We do have a slight reward for all of our
hard work. Allegedly, we have the
potential to have powerful orgasms.
Unfortunately, to achieve this evasive experience, we have to pull out a
Sharpie and draw a set of detailed blueprints on our inner thighs so you know
which spots to target and which to avoid. Then we twist our bodies into
positions envied by most circus performers to find the perfect combination of
pleasure and pain, by which time, you are probably already done. In all honesty, it is much easier for us to
throw some batteries into that new toy we bought for half off on Groupon. But, we go through the contortionist act anyway
in an effort to please you so, do us a favor and spare us the story about the
porn you saw with the woman who could get her legs behind her head while
achieving an orgasm and cracking open a beer at the same time. She’s not normal, probably had ribs
surgically removed, and she’s faking that orgasm.
If you still don’t understand where
we are coming from, I’d like to point out the hardships of my single friends. On dates, men have the luxury of eating
whatever they want and, in an effort to not look like the carnivorous beasts
that we actually are, we order a salad and longingly watch you down your meat
and potatoes. By the end of the night,
our stomachs are usually growling, our reflexes are slowed, and our judgment is
impaired. So those women who put out on
the first date are not slutty, they are severely malnourished and just praying
that your bachelor pad has an extra slice of pizza in the fridge that they can inhale
while you are fumbling around for a condom.
After eating that pizza, we then come
home and give ourselves a guilt trip for it.
We listen to the voices in our own minds reminding us about our muffin
top, stretch marks, and the cellulite that has been forming on our thighs. We balance with one leg up on the bathroom
counter twisting around and using three mirrors to try and count how many new
dimples we have and cry as we attempt to figure out the lengths we might have
to go to to remove them. Then we do everything from rubbing coffee grounds on
our skin to wrapping ourselves in seaweed, bathing in mud, and, if all else
fails, subjecting our bodies to lasers and scalpels in an effort to rid
ourselves of these perceived flaws. And we
won’t even discuss gray hair and wrinkles.
By this time, we are truly
exhausted. So it’s time for some beauty
sleep. But we can’t even do that without
being judged! Women are apparently not
supposed to snore, wake up with dragon breath, and God forbid you are a sleep
farter. So we attempt to stay in one
spot and appear to be dainty little angels.
It is not until we are truly comfortable in a relationship that we will
allow you to see the reality of our sleeping habits which usually consists of our
legs caught in an alligator death roll with the sheets in a fight to the death
type of situation.
Like I said, this is a lot of
work. What do we have to show for all of
this effort? Seven days of
uncontrollable emotions and hormones that cause us to laugh and cry at the same
time while wearing something that feels like an adult diaper or playing “hide
the string” if it’s swimsuit season. And,
while we are on the subject, let me offer you some advice. Don’t you DARE ask us if we have our period
when we are a little crabby. If you are
wrong, the question itself is enough to piss us off enough to make you spend
the entire evening paying for it. If
you’re right, you better be wearing a cup because the probability of you getting
kicked in the balls is high. Do us both
a favor and offer us a foot massage if we are a little cranky instead. It takes you 10 minutes and the odds of any
permanent damage to your testicles decrease dramatically.
Now, we don’t ALWAYS have those
dreaded 7 days a month. But if we are
lucky enough to be without them, it’s probably because we are carrying a little
human being inside of us. Yes, this is
sweet, and precious, and we are happy about it and all that crap. But that little human being will eventually take
away our ability to sleep, our ability to poop in peace, and our ability to
laugh or sneeze without wetting our pants.
But don’t worry, God rewards us later on in life with hot flashes and
night sweats along with a decreased sex drive which you will inevitably bitch
about too.
So please cut us some slack the next
time we are crying at the feminine hygiene commercial during the Super Bowl or
have an irrational response to you asking how our day was. Chances are we have
a g-string up our butt, our feet are bleeding, we are probably starving, and
it’s time to wax our mustache again. We
certainly put up with your burping, farting, temper tantrums, quirks, and weird
man smells so the least you can do is forgive us for occasional ovary-acting. I don’t think this is asking a lot. We are,
after all, doing most of this for you.
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