Why Women Are Cranky
We start to "bud" in our blouses at 9 or 10 years
old only to find anything that comes in contact with
those tender, blooming buds hurts so bad it brings
us to tears. Enter the almighty, uncomfortable
training bra contraption the boys in school will
snap until we have calluses on our backs
Next, we get our periods in our early to mid-teens
(or sooner). Along with those budding boobs, we now
bloat, we cramp, we get the hormone crankies, have
to wear little mattresses between our legs or insert
tubular, packed
cotton rods in places we didn't even know we had.
Our next little rite of passage (premarital or not)
is having sex for the first time which is about as
much fun as having a ramrod push your uterus through
your nostrils (IF he did it right and didn't end up
with his little
cart before his horse), leaving us to wonder what
all the fuss was about.
Then it's off to Motherhood where we learn to live
on dry crackers and water for a few months so we
don't spend the entire day leaning over Brother
John. Of course, amazing creatures that we are (and
we are), we learn to live with the growing little
angels inside us steadily kicking our innards night
and day making us wonder if we're having Rosemary's
Baby. Our once flat bellies now look like we
swallowed a watermelon whole and we pee our pants
every time we sneeze. When the big moment arrives,
the dam in our blessed Nether Regions will
invariably burst right in the middle of the
shopping, and we'll waddle with our big cartoon feet
moaning in pain all the way to the ER.
Then it's huff and puff and beg to die while the
obstetrician says, "Please stop screaming, Mrs.
Hear-me-roar. Calm down and push. Just one more
or 10) good push," warranting a strong,
well-deserved impulse to punch the bastard (and
hubby) square in the nose for making us cram a
wiggling, mushroom-headed 10 pound bowling ball
through a keyhole.
After that, it's time to raise those angels only to
find that when all that cute" wears off, the
beautiful little darlings morph into walking,
jabbering wet, gooey, snot-blowing, life-sucking
little poop machines.
The teen years. Need I say more? The kids are
almost grown now and we women hit our voracious
sexual prime in our mid-30's to early 40's while
hubby had his somewhere around his 18th birthday
(which just happens to be the reason all that early
hot man sex got you pregnant in the first place).
Now we hit the grand finale: "The Menopause," the
grandmother of all womanhood. It's either take the
HRT (hormones) and chance cancer in those now
seasoned "buds" or the aforementioned Nether
Regions, or, sweat like a hog in July, wash your
sheets and pillowcases daily and bite the head off
anything that moves.
Now, you ask WHY women seem to be more spiteful than
men when men get off so easy INCLUDING the icing on
life's cake: Being able to pee in the woods without
soaking their socks.
Now I love being a woman but "Womanhood" would make
the Great Gandhi a tad crabby.
Women are the "weaker sex?" Yeah right.
Krijoni Kontakt