Why Women Hate

I wish I was a man.

There, I said it.

Especially on days like today, where I actually think it sucks to be a woman.

This revelation might seem a bit odd to some, because “what’s not to love” about being a woman? Lots, apparently.

Men are uncomplicated. Yes, it can be attributed to basic biology and the fact that they mainly function on the primitive hormone called testosterone which calls them to hunt. To eat. To scratch that itch. In public. One single hormone, as opposed to the heady cocktail of shmormones that women need just to lift a perfectly pedicured toe out of bed. Yes, we are pretty much set up for a disaster on a molecular level.

But I think it’s more than that. It goes deeper than that. Men are uncomplicated on every level. And I’m not talking about the emasculated metro-sexual here. No, a real man. The one who will say and then think the following, nine out of ten times:

(Disclaimer: these are not all based on my own experiences, I promise).

Peach is not a colour, it’s a fruit.

I don’t need to bath, I had a swim.

What’s couscous?

I’m not answering your “does that make me look fat” questions anymore.

Your perfume smells amazing – is it our anniversary or something?

You’re wearing those shoes to the mall? *smirks*

I love you.

You can pretty much bet your…errr…bottom dollar that if a man says any of the above, he means it. He’s not trying to be funny. He’s not trying to impress anybody, so if he doesn’t know what the hell couscous is, he doesn’t know. Simple as that. Oh, I wish!!

Here’s the women’s version of the same scenarios:

She was wearing peach? Define “peach” - was it like that hideous peach dress that Mary wore to her cousin Anita’s 16^th birthday party ten years ago at the sports club, or is the colour more like the peach blusher that I bought at The Body Shop last week for R189,95?

Yay for my second bath of the day. See you in five hours’ time after I’ve shaved, shampooed, bleached, plucked, buffed, exfoliated, scrubbed, soaked, treated, exorcised and marinated every single part of me in strawberry-mango-peach (the fruit) smoothie body heaven. Oh, and sorry about the hot water being finished. I see you had a swim.

Couscous? That’s so last decade. Plus, I’m not eating carbs at the moment, silly! But I’ll have some of that free range, organic, hand plucked, pre-soaked, endorsed by Gwyneth Paltrow quinoa. It tastes disgusting, so it must be good for me.

Does this black-slightly–faded-stretchy-largely-overpriced jean make me look fat? I’ve only spent the last week starving myself to fit into them. But I saw them on page 59 of last month’s ELLE magazine and you know what they said – these pants will flatter any body shape. But they hurt me and I can’t breathe. No pain, no gain *And then she faints*

…this is the perfume you bought me on our first date on the 27^th of June 1980. You said it reminded you of my beauty and youthfulness. The top notes of jasmine, mixed with the tears of a unicorn and the feathers of a baby peacock. Remember?

Yes, I’m wearing these shoes. They’re the only thing that fits me at the moment. I hate you! You’ve ruined my life *scream-punch-run-cries out of the room*

I love you. I want to have your babies. I want to meet your mother. Why have I not met your mother? What’s your favourite name for a girl? I want to have a natural birth and I want you to cut the umbilical cord while we all sing “Kumbaya My Lord” and hold hands. Why are you looking so worried? Speak to me? What are you feeling right now? When you said you love me, what did you mean?

I feel exhausted just by writing that. Jeez. Seriously? Is that what we sound like? A far cry from what I want to be, I can assure you. Ok fair enough, all women aren’t like that…but the majority of us are. Add to the mix someone who gossips, backstabs, over-analyses and uses your every word against you (but only a few months later), cries at the drop of a hat, uses pregnancy/PMS as an excuse to be an intolerable human being, and a whole bottle (about 3.25 litres) of concentrated bitch…and you’re close to figuring us out. Well, almost.

And I don’t want to be like that.

I’m sick of feeling sick to my stomach because I was just nasty to someone I actually love. I’m sick of dreading to bump into someone who I’ve held a grudge against for so long. I’m sick of walking into a room, and feeling like I look like a dog because women look me up and down. I’m sick of always having a nasty back-hand comment ready. I’m sick of being involved in petty-as-hell arguments…always having to get the last word in. And then deleting that girl - my now ex-friend - and her entire family from my life just because we can’t behave like adults. I’m sick of being a woman.

My heart is actually so heavy right now…because I realise we are all like that. And I realise we are like that, because we are insecure. So unnecessarily insecure. So heart-breakingly insecure. And the more insecure we are, the more we judge others. And the more we judge, the more we get judged. And then that makes us feel insecure again. What a mess.

All I can do is pray to change. Yes, you can raise your perfect eye-brows at me (sheesh, how much does a wax hurt?! Still not used to it). I don’t know what else to do, but pray and ask God to show me how to be better at being a woman. Better at being a friend, a sister, a wife, a daughter and a mother. To be like He created me to be – yes, complicated – but beautifully complicated. To be like her…the perfect-unrealistic-how-does-she-do-it woman of Proverbs 31. Surely God won’t mention her, if He doesn’t think it’s possible for me to be like her?

Proverbs 31v10-31 – The message

A good woman is hard to find,
    and worth far more than diamonds.
Her husband trusts her without reserve,
    and never has reason to regret it.
Never spiteful, she treats him generously
    all her life long.
She shops around for the best yarns and cottons,
    and enjoys knitting and sewing.
She’s like a trading ship that sails to faraway places
    and brings back exotic surprises.
She’s up before dawn, preparing breakfast
    for her family and organising her day.
She looks over a field and buys it,
    then, with money she’s put aside, plants a garden.
First thing in the morning, she dresses for work,
    rolls up her sleeves, eager to get started.
She senses the worth of her work,
    is in no hurry to call it quits for the day.
She’s skilled in the crafts of home and hearth,
    diligent in homemaking.
She’s quick to assist anyone in need,
    reaches out to help the poor.
She doesn’t worry about her family when it snows;
    their winter clothes are all mended and ready to wear.
She makes her own clothing,
    and dresses in colourful linens and silks.
Her husband is greatly respected
    when he deliberates with the city fathers.
She designs gowns and sells them,
    brings the sweaters she knits to the dress shops.
Her clothes are well-made and elegant,
    and she always faces tomorrow with a smile.
When she speaks she has something worthwhile to say,
    and she always says it kindly.
She keeps an eye on everyone in her household,
    and keeps them all busy and productive.
Her children respect and bless her;
    her husband joins in with words of praise:
“Many women have done wonderful things,
    but you’ve outclassed them all!”
Charm can mislead and beauty soon fades.
    The woman to be admired and praised
    is the woman who lives in the Fear-of-God.
Give her everything she deserves!
    Festoon her life with praises!

More smiling…and less frowning. Less eye-rolling. Less sneering. Less death stares.

More loving…and less hating. Less harsh words. Less impulsive messages.

More listening…and less talking trash. Less giving my five cents’ worth.

More giving…and less taking as much as I can get.

More femininity…and less trying to dominate the hell out of every situation.

Softer, gentler, kinder, calmer and all round just nicer. To myself, and everyone else in my life. A woman to be proud of. A woman that is worthy of being called a princess. A woman that would inspire a song like “Wonderful Tonight” by Eric Clapton and not “Maneater” by Nelly Furtado. A woman that is worthy of having her portrait studied by millions, years after she has died. A Mona Lisa. Beautiful like van Gogh’s “Starry Night”.

Beautifully complicated.

More like a composition of swirly stars…and less like a bitch.