Tuesday, October 11, 2005

“I am Woman, hear me roar…” …or whine…

There is an awful lot of worship of the girly girl going on around me these days. I’m starting to look at the grass over there and think that a few mouthfuls might just be a tasty treat.

Alright, now that I’ve compared myself to a cow O.o Let’s get on with this.

I used to thrive on being the self-sufficient type. I liked being the one who killed the spider, shooed the mouse outside, changed my own flat tires, put up my own drywall, taped and mudded it and then sanded, painted and finished the room. I’ve cleaned horse stalls for a living, working on the race track and being the only one on the crew who could handle the studs I had 7 studs and one cantankerous old mare on my string. As well as receiving the respect of all the other grooms for it. It was good being that person. Mostly it is good being that person. I remember enjoying being that person…

Sensing a change in the air that doesn’t feel like fall?

Ahem.

I really did enjoy being that person at one time. However, when I look at my rough worn hands, feel the crick in my back and can’t escape the smell of paint cleaner that hangs about me, I’m starting to think that maybe this isn’t what I signed on for. Strangely enough I don’t mind the smell of the horse manure.

I detest girly girls. I don’t want to be a girly girl…but sometimes… the grass looks pretty darned green over there…

I’m thinking it might be nice to be the delicate beauty that all the guys (and gals) flock to when she sighs. It definitely would be cool to not be the one crawling in under the sink with the hammer to try to flatten er chase the mouse. Fainting at the sight of a spider would be okay, so long as no one expected me to climb up on the chair and squish it into a tissue. Of course, under the condition that the Fabio clone, Marlboro Man version caught me gently in his arms instead of hitting the floor. Clunk!

I know that at least a couple of friends of mine will roll their eyes and mutter about whining if they were to read this, but you know what? TOUGH frozen titties.

I’m sick of being expected to do all the tough chick shit and the obviously not so tough chicks sit around and collect all the baubles and accolades and attenion. Next time you look at a tough chick, take a good look at her hands, and her hair.

Check out that manicure…guess what guys, that costs anywhere from $35 to $50 a month to maintain. Oh, don’t forget the hair? That will cost an easy $80-120 every six weeks not counting the dye job. There’s likely a pedicure in there every few months, too. But since I’ve never had one in my life I have no idea how much they are.

Low maintenance my ass :P. $200 plus every 8 weeks, hah.

Bitter? Yes, just a touch.

Why so cranky, you ask? This isn’t something new, or sudden in my life. Most of the time I’m quite content to leave things the way they are. Or it’s possible that it’s just less hassle than trying to change it.

This is like being the nice guy, and always being the friend instead of the hero who gets the girl. It’s one of life’s little imbalances that everyone says will even out in the end, but it never really does. The nice guys and real girls end up with the short end as often as not, regardless of how well their lives turn out and how many of God’s unanswered prayers there are.

Because at the end of the day, they still see themselves as inadequate rather than recognizing the inadequacy of the girl that goes for the hot bod and snazzy car and that little touch of danger that she’s sure she’ll be able to tame out of him. Or the missing part of the guy with the snazzy car and hot bod who thinks that fake nails are just an affectation and not really what she’s like and she’ll really want to pull wrenches with him on every Saturday evening instead of being taken out to the newest club.

These imbalances exist.

There’s always someone at the office who buys all the birthday cards and often no one remembers their birthday. Hello, people, why the hell do you think this person goes to all that trouble? Because they know what it’s like to not have the one special day that’s only theirs acknowledged.

There’s the one person in the family who everyone tells their troubles to, and no one bothers to ask about theirs, because they must be okay if they have time to listen to whines and moans from everyone else.

So the next time you forget someone’s birthday, phone your mother to whine about your boyfriend or drool over some hot chick on the street, think a minute, are you a nice guy or a tough chick that’s getting the wrong end of the shaft or are you the one handing out the shaft.