Mrs Behavin
Well-Known Member
We start to "bud" in our blouses at 9 or 10 years old only to find
anything that comes in contact with those tender, blooming buds hurts
so bad it brings us to tears. Enter the almighty, uncomfortable training bra
contraption the boys in school will snap until we have calluses on our
backs.
Next, we get our periods in our early to mid-teens (or sooner). Along
withthose budding boobs, we now bloat, we cramp, we get the hormone crankies, have to wear little mattresses between our legs or insert tubular, packedcotton rods in places we didn't even know we had.
Our next little rite of passage (premarital or not) is having sex for
the first time, which is 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's off to Motherhood where we learn to live on dry crackers and
water for a few months so we don't spend the entire day leaning over
Brother John. Of course, amazing creatures that we are (and we are), we
learn to live with the growing little angels inside us steadily kicking
our innards night and day, making us wonder if we're having Rosemary's
Baby. Our once flat bellies now look like we swallowed a watermelon
whole
and we pee our pants every time we sneeze. (The latter condition never
goes away, either...lots of times, neither does the former.)
When the big moment arrives, the dam in our blessed Nether Regions will
invariably burst right in the middle of the mall and we'll waddle with our
big cartoon feet, moaning in pain all the way to the ER. Then it's huff
and puff and beg to die while the OB says, "Please stop screaming, Mrs.
Hearmeroar. Calm down and push. Just one or (or 10) good push,"
warranting
a strong, well-deserved impulse to punch the bastard (and hubby) square
in the nose for making us cram a wiggling, mushroom-headed 10 lb. bowing ball
through a keyhole.
After that, it's time to raise those angels, only to find that when all
that "cute" wears off, the beautiful little darlings morph into
walking, jabbering, wet, gooey, snot-blowing, life-sucking little poop machines.
The teen years. Need I say more?
The kids are almost grown now and we women hit our voracious sexual
prime
in our mid-30's to early 40's while hubby had his somewhere around his
18th birthday (which just happens to be the reason all that early, hot,
man sex got you pregnant in the first place).
Now we hit the grand finale: Menopause. The Grandmother of all
womanhood.
It's either take the HRT and chance cancer in those now seasoned "buds"
or the aforementioned Nether Regions, or sweat like a hog in July, wash
your sheets and pillowcases daily and bite the head off of 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...
Now, I love being a woman but "Womanhood" would make the Great Ghandi a tad crabby.
Women are the weaker sex? Nah, I dont think so
anything that comes in contact with those tender, blooming buds hurts
so bad it brings us to tears. Enter the almighty, uncomfortable training bra
contraption the boys in school will snap until we have calluses on our
backs.
Next, we get our periods in our early to mid-teens (or sooner). Along
withthose budding boobs, we now bloat, we cramp, we get the hormone crankies, have to wear little mattresses between our legs or insert tubular, packedcotton rods in places we didn't even know we had.
Our next little rite of passage (premarital or not) is having sex for
the first time, which is 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's off to Motherhood where we learn to live on dry crackers and
water for a few months so we don't spend the entire day leaning over
Brother John. Of course, amazing creatures that we are (and we are), we
learn to live with the growing little angels inside us steadily kicking
our innards night and day, making us wonder if we're having Rosemary's
Baby. Our once flat bellies now look like we swallowed a watermelon
whole
and we pee our pants every time we sneeze. (The latter condition never
goes away, either...lots of times, neither does the former.)
When the big moment arrives, the dam in our blessed Nether Regions will
invariably burst right in the middle of the mall and we'll waddle with our
big cartoon feet, moaning in pain all the way to the ER. Then it's huff
and puff and beg to die while the OB says, "Please stop screaming, Mrs.
Hearmeroar. Calm down and push. Just one or (or 10) good push,"
warranting
a strong, well-deserved impulse to punch the bastard (and hubby) square
in the nose for making us cram a wiggling, mushroom-headed 10 lb. bowing ball
through a keyhole.
After that, it's time to raise those angels, only to find that when all
that "cute" wears off, the beautiful little darlings morph into
walking, jabbering, wet, gooey, snot-blowing, life-sucking little poop machines.
The teen years. Need I say more?
The kids are almost grown now and we women hit our voracious sexual
prime
in our mid-30's to early 40's while hubby had his somewhere around his
18th birthday (which just happens to be the reason all that early, hot,
man sex got you pregnant in the first place).
Now we hit the grand finale: Menopause. The Grandmother of all
womanhood.
It's either take the HRT and chance cancer in those now seasoned "buds"
or the aforementioned Nether Regions, or sweat like a hog in July, wash
your sheets and pillowcases daily and bite the head off of 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...
Now, I love being a woman but "Womanhood" would make the Great Ghandi a tad crabby.
Women are the weaker sex? Nah, I dont think so
