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 mall 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 OB says, "Please stop screaming,
Mrs. Hearmeroar.
Calm down and push. Just one more (or 10 ) good push," warranting
a strong, well- deserved impulse to punch the ******* (and hubby)
square in the nose for making us cram a wiggling, mushroom-headed
10lb 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 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 Ghandi a tad crabby. Women are the "weaker
sex"? Yeah right. Bite me.
