Being a woman sucks.
Sometimes I think about how awesome it would be to be a dude. I could leave hair where hair grows, I could use a body wash that is also a shampoo, I could have U.U.S.S. and not have a care in the world. I could eat as much as I want and keep everything I need in a wallet instead of an enormous hobo bag that gives me back problems. I could put my car in the garage without calling a mechanic in the family just to make sure I’m not getting ripped off. And (my favorite) I would never, ever worry about what to wear.
Not to mention, I wouldn’t have to deal with the once-a-month junk. I wouldn’t even have to think about it. In no way would it affect my daily life and I could use the money I save on ibuprofen, pads, and tampons to start my own small business.
Then again if I were a dude, I don’t think I could deal with women. I’m really not a fan of them and I can’t imagine having to put up with one for life. If you’d like to know more, you can check it out here, in a blog post written long, long ago in a part of my brain far, far away (disclaimer: back then I was…”more free” with my word choice).
Sometimes I make Dave dinner or give him a foot massage just because I can’t fathom how he puts up with me. Because as much as I may harbor dude-like tendencies, I am undeniably woman in my aggressive and unpredictable mood swings, my ability to take stress from one category of my life and allow it to bring down the wrath of Hades in another completely unrelated category, and in my inability to stop myself from cooing and giggling at puppies.
In my defense, there is a startling amount of adorable puppies in my neighborhood.
I must also admit that I am deeply disturbed by the idea of owning a penis. Truly, deeply disturbed. And I don’t mean because I was born as a woman and would find the sex change unnerving (which I would), but rather that I have no idea what men do with them, where they put them in their day-to-day tasks, and how they manage to not squish them. I can only imagine the complete sense of imbalance I would have for the entire day once I’ve made my choice to dress to the left or the right. That seems like a long-term decision to me and the pressure of commitment each morning would be too much for me to bear.
Also, Dave once said penises are “like a tail but in the front.” and I will forever carry that deeply disturbing thought with the image of my conversion to dude-ism.
So yesterday’s time was wisely invested in the art of couch-sitting. I call it my “Jabba the Hut” look. Because it was one of those beautiful times in a woman’s life where no amount of preventative maintenance for either my body or my mind could stop me from being a gigantic, painstricken, cranky, leaky mess. Luckily, the laptop offered a sort of radiating warmth and helped ease the pain of womanhood pulsating through my lower abdomen. And when I tired of the Interwebz, I replaced its warmth with that of a cat. Because it’s one of their many uses and a great way to pay me back for all their freeloafing.
So much for my awesome times in my awesome fort while Dave is away. Blasted ovaries. ♣
The Jackie Blog 
Sam’s response to Dave’s tail comment was “I wish that they were prehensile” which is even MORE terrifying than the thought of being just a tail.
Additionally, re: spending money on pads and tampons – the diva cup and cloth pads are life and money savers. Many of my friends have converted and won’t be turning back to expensive (and environmentally unfriendly!) products.
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You stated that if you were a guy you wouldn’t even think about the once a month issues of feminine life. What you forget is that many of us in committed relationships still deal with those issues. We don’t deal with them in any sort of direct way, of course, but indirectly it entirely effects our plans in the same way that a speeding train forces all traffic making its way across the railroad tracks to come to a complete halt and alter its plans, itinerary, and sometimes its direction in order to accomodate the unstoppable force that has come into its path.
We usually realize the train has arrived because as our significant others begin to act in completely irrational manners and get angry with us for reasons that are beyond the capacity of our logical facilities to reason out the thought slowly creeps to the forefront of our minds and reaches the conscious layer of thought at about the same time that our wives begin to break down in tears, apologizing, and announcing that very thought: Aunt Flo has returned.
In my case, it’s where the week of extra grace begins. All logic initiatives applied to understanding the actions of my wife come to an end and are halted for the period of approximately a week, and the thickness of my skin becomes impenetrable while I zone into a state of mind that prevents me from taking any offense at anything she does while continuing to ensure her that, Yes, I do love you despite my perpetual inability to figure out why my deeply logical mind has no capacity to understand you for 1/4 of your life.
The solution to this dilemma: Pregnancy. =D 😉
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Woe to any man who actually voices the thought that his woman may be hormonal. Even if (especially if) it is true, to say it is to have one’s head removed from one’s body. We can’t stand the suggestion that we are irrational when we are irrational. Sorry.
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@Lori – I should really get the guts to do the Diva Cup; I’ve heard nothing but wonderful things. Lollipop Tuesday? lol gross.
@Jer – you’re right – I’ve entirely overlooked the burden on a dude’s shoulders when his dudette gets all menstrual on him. But I lump this together with the reasons I couldn’t actually go through with it – I can’t actually imagine having to put up with a woman for my entire life.
@Peg – Absolutely correct.
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Nice blog and good post friend..
Keep blogging.. 🙂
Waiting for your next post…
Visit my blog too and give your comment on my articles…
🙂
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Thanks 🙂 I stopped by your site – a little too technical subject matter for me but very straightforward and easy to follow. Thanks so much for saying hi.
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