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 (premarital or not) was having sex for
the first time which was 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' 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 watermelon whole and we
pee'd 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 Hospital.
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 the
%*#!* (and hubby) square in the nose for making us cram a wiggling,
mushroom-headed 10lb 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 poo 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 pig 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...
So, while I love being a woman, "Womanhood" would make the Great Gandhi a
tad crabby. Women are the "weaker sex"? Yeah right. Bite me.
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Originally Posted by Goblin
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