Poor Woman
We start to "bud" in our blouses at nine or ten years of age, only to find that anything that comes in contact with those blooming buds, hurts so bad that it brings tears to our eyes. Enter the almighty, uncomfortable training bra contraption that the boys in school will snap until we have calluses on our backs.
Next, we get our periods in or early to mid-teens (or even sooner). Along with those budding boobs, we now bloat, we cramp, we get the hormone crankies, and we 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 right of passage (premarital or not) is having sex for the first time, which is about as much fun as having a steel rod rammed up our uterus and shoved straight through to our nostrils, leaving us to wonder what all the fuss was about. Then it's off to motherhood, where we learn to live on water and dry crackers for a few months so we don't spend the entire day hanging over the toilet.
Of course, amazing creatures that we are (and we ARE), we learn to live with the little angel growing inside us, steadily kicking our innards day and night, causing us to wonder if we're having Rosemary's Baby. Our once flat bellies now look as if 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 in the middle of the mall, and we will 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 doctor says, "please stop screaming. Calm down and give just one (or ten) more good push(es)," warranting a strong, well-deserved impulse to punch the b*****d (and your husband) square in the face for making us cram a wiggling, ten pound mushroom-headed bowling ball through a keyhole.
After that, it's time to raise those little 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. Next are the teen years. Need I say more? The kids are almost grown and we women hit out voracious sexual prime in our mid-30's to early 40's, while hubby got his somewhere around his eighteenth birthday, which just happens to be the reason all that hot man-sex got you pregnant in the first place.
Now we hit the Grande Finale: Menopause. The grandmother of all womanhood. It's either chance cancer in those now seasoned "buds," or the aforementioned Nether Regions, or sweat like a hog in July, wash our sheets daily and bite the head off of anything that moves.
Now, you ask WHY women seem to be more spiteful than men, when men get off so easily, 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 cry. Women are the weaker sex? Yeah right. Bite me.
