Why Women are Crabby

We started to ‘bud’ in our blouses at 9 or 10 years old only to find
that anything that came in contact with those tender, blooming buds hurt
so bad it brought us to tears. So came the ridiculously uncomfortable
training bra contraption that the boys in school would snap until we had
calluses on our backs.

Next, we get our periods in our early to mid-teens (or sooner). Along
with those budding boobs, we bloated, we cramped, we got the hormone
crankies, had 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 was having sex for the first time
which was about as much fun as having a baseball bat pushed into your
uterus through your nostrils (IF he did it right and didn’t end up
finishing before it even began), leaving us to wonder what all the fuss
was about.

Then it was off to Motherhood where we learned to live on dry crackers
and water for a few months so we didn’t spend the entire day leaning
over Brother John . Of course, amazing creatures that we are (and we
are), we learned to live with the growing little angels inside us
steadily kicking our innards night and day making us wonder if we were
preparing to have Rosemary’s Baby.

Our once flat bellies looked like we swallowed a whole watermelon and
we peed our pants every time we sneezed. When the big moment arrived,
the dam in our blessed Nether Regions invariably burst right in the
middle of the mall and we had to waddle, with our big cartoon feet,
moaning in pain all the way to the ER.

Then it was huff and puff and beg to die while the OB  says, ‘Please
stop screaming,  Mrs. Hearmeroar . Calm down and push. ‘Just one more
good push’ (more like 10), warranting a strong, well-deserved impulse to
punch our %$#*@*#!* husband in the face and kick the doctor square in
the nose for making us cram a wiggling, mushroom-headed 10 pound bowling
ball through a keyhole.

After that, it was time to raise those angels only to find that when
all that ‘cute’ wears off, the beautiful little darlings morphed into
walking, jabbering, wet, gooey, snot-blowing, life-sucking little poop
machines.

Then come their ‘Teen Years.’ Need I say more?

When the kids are almost grown, we women hit our voracious sexual
prime in our early 40’s – while hubby had his somewhere around his 18th
birthday.

So we progress into the grand finale: ‘The Menopause’, the Grandmother
of all womanhood. It’s either take 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 (and not have to use a leaf to
wipe or resort to drip-drying)…

So, while I love being a woman, ‘Womanhood’ would make the Great
Gandhi a tad crabby. You think women are the ‘weaker sex’?  Yeah right.
Bite me.

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2 Responses

  1. Yeah, that sounds about right. I lucked out though, I started my period when I was 8. Nothing like those asian genes to make a child totally miserable. Now why in God’s green earth would any human need to be fertile at age 8? And just my luck I probably won’t reach menopause until I’m like 60, you watch.

  2. I’ve seen that before! It’s so funny! I love it!

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