I was going to title this post ‘Inside the mind of a woman’ but I realised it may be misleading, since – apparently – I don’t think like a woman. Some people even doubt I actually am a woman, since I allegedly blog (and sometimes tweet) like a man. The point was brought home a few days ago.

Of stoves, wax, and blackouts

I was in a friend’s kitchen trying to find a matchbox after his weekly housekeeper had been through. Generally, by the time she leaves, the house is spotless, the fridge is full, and he has no clue where anything is.

“You’re a woman. Where would you put a matchbox?”

“You’re asking me?!?”

“Well … I suppose it’s a dumb question.”

“Not necesarrily. I mean, all my important parts are female.”

“You know, sometimes I wonder about those parts too.”

“Nkt. Stupid. Wait. I have a lighter?”

“You smoke?”

“No?”

“But you have a lighter.”

“Do you want that candle on or not?”

It then took me about 15 tries to get the candle lit, and only after the man in the house tilted it and explained some basic physics to me. Needless to say, he is now convinced that I am a woman after all. *cheeky grin*

Stupid questions well answered

I was at work, where I live inside the loud rock blaring in my earphones. During a silent gap between songs, I overheard a conversation between two male workmates.

“So what video-games do you play?”

“I don’t play anymore.”

“Really?”

“Nope.”

One of the guys then walked across the room while the other one started to replace his headphones. I couldn’t understand it. “Wait,” I yelled. “You’re not going to ask him why?” After all, in my female mind, the automatic response to, “I don’t play games anymore” is “Why not?” Apparently, a man’s mental process is much simpler. They looked at each other, looked at me, then said, “He must have had a really good reason for quitting video-games, so I don’t need to ask.” Then he went on with his headphones as the other guy continued whatever he was doing.

Really? Just like that? For girls that conversation would have gone on for half an hour and possibly ended up with one girl insulting for other for berating her love of video-games. Or her opinion on the hottest male video-game star. Or the colour of some video vixen’s hair. Or anything really. Point is, that would not have been the end of the conversation, not without having all pertinent tangential questions satisfactorily answered. No wonder guys’ lives are so simple. God I wish I was a guy.

A question of virginity

Men like to marry virgins. And virgins like to marry guys who – well – know what they’re doing in bed. That means guys have to practise on someone before they settle down with their forever girls. And so both virgin girls and marriage-able men should be grateful to the … um … liberated women who allow them to experiment and hone their … um … virgin bride husbandry. So then why is it that the entire society looks down on them and calls them names instead?

And for that matter, what’s supposed to happen to the liberated girls when they decide to settle down and marry too? It’s not really fair that they should miss out after helping all those gifted men and virgin brides. The alternative is that we all stay virgins and fumble in our marriage beds. Learn by doing, right?

Speaking of men and practice, I’ve just realised that a lot of the men I’ve been with were … wrong. Not that there was anything off about them specifically. More that I was more attracted to the the fact that they liked me than to any attributes that they possessed. For some reason, that makes me really, really sad. Still, now that I’m older, wiser, and more discerning, I can finally find someone who has more going for him than the fact that he was nice to me, and I suppose that counts for something.

Also, double standards sometimes work to our advantage as women. Well, they work to my advantage anyway. I’ve asked men a lot of questions that would get me slapped if I were a guy and they were girls. I would repeat the specific questions here, but that in itself might get me slapped, so I’ll just say that on days like that, it totally rocks to be a girl.

Does my weight make me look fat?

According to my doctor, I need to go on a serious diet. According to everyone else, I should be shot for playing with celery sticks. A recent playmate said I look amazing for a woman my size, and that, ironically prompted me to get up ay 4.00 a.m. and do some step aerobics. Why? Because I haven’t seen said playmate in years, and was seriously worried that my weight would put him off. Instead, he genuinely revelled in the new curves, and left me feeling confident enough to strut it hard. The positive self image made it easier for me to work out. So three cheers for good manners!

Meanwhile, a lot of people claim they work well under pressure. Unfortunately, I’m a creative, so applying pressure just gives me mental blocks. Adding an incentive to that pressure makes me shut down completely, and I don’t even really know why. I wish my boss would realise that promising me a raise if I do xyz is the surest way to NOT get it done, and will only make me more resentful as I end up blaming myself for not earning that raise. Sigh.

Stepping away from bosses and on to more fun topics, a different playmate had me down in the dumps for most of today because he refused to answer a basic question. It’s possible he was simply sparing my feelings by saying nothing at all. Unfortunately, this woman’s mind interprets silence as the opposite of consent. So by the time he had found something nice to say – still without answering my question – I had beaten myself up for most of the day. Sigh. Fortunately, I recently discovered that disturbances in the force can be instantly righted through copious amounts of … exercise. Now if only I could find a cheap, easy, regular way to get said exercise at will.

♫ Strong enough ♫ Sheryl Crow ♫