Why Women Get Crabby

We started to "bud" in our blouses at nine or ten years old, only to find that anything that came in contact with those tender, blooming buds hurt so much it brought us to tears. So then came the ridiculously uncomfortable training bra contraption that the boys in school would snap until we had calluses on our backs.

Next, we got 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 peed 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 ten)," warranting a strong, well-deserved impulse to punch the ***** (and hubby) square in the nose for making us cram a wiggling, mushroom-headed 10lb 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-sucking 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 40's - 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 July, 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 even the Great Gandhi a tad crabby. Women are the "weaker sex"? Yeah right. Bite me.

~Received by email. Author unknown.