Trials & Tribulations of Womanhood

"Trials & Tribulations of Womanhood"

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 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 the
***** (and hubby) square in the nose for making us cram
a wiggling, mushroom- headed 7-10 lb 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-suckling 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 40s - 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
Spring and Summer, 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.
Received on Fri Jun 27 04:13:44 2008