I’m reducing my coffee intake. Each time I go to grab a cup of Holy Water I ask myself, “Do you need this chemical stimulant?” The word ‘stimulant’ is the rub— it’s a poke at my self-worth: I have everything I need for greatness; don’t need nothin’ or nobody! Pathetic, I know, but it has helped me go down from five cups of coffee a day to two. Strategy.
A couple of weeks ago I took a day to rendezvous with my Bestie in Barrie. I gave myself permission to go wild on the stimulants. Woke up early, had a cup of coffee (naturally). Sent the kids off to school, had a cup of coffee (celebration and anticipation). Drove through town to get to Highway 11, grabbed a cup of coffee (company for the journey). Had a fantastic lunch with Bestie, drank 3 cups of water, and had a cup of coffee (just to seal in the happiness). By 3 P.M. that afternoon I was VERY stimulated.
One of my many undocumented talents is bladder control. The only time my need to urinate equalled my liquid intake was when I was 8 months pregnant. I have been told it’s unhealthy to ‘hold it in’, but I don’t actually ‘hold’, I just don’t need to pee. When I do feel the urge to take a wizz it comes on rapidly and flows like Victoria Falls. And I’m fine with this— I don’t have time to ‘tinkle’ multiple times a day.
Once again on Highway 11 making my way back to Huntsville, listening to Barbara Streisand tell Barry Gibb that they’ve got nothing to be guilty of, the need to urinate finally arrived (7 beverages later). Rocking from one cheek to the other I realized that I was not going to make it home without the floodgates opening; I had to take immediate action. I turned off Barbara, took the next exit, began singing John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt (my preferred method of distraction), and clapped my hands frantically when I saw the Tim Horton’s sign materialize as I came over the rise. At this point, I started experiencing a violent pain in the abdomen and a cold sweat broke over my upper lip. So lovely, feminity at it’s finest. Enter Man-of-the-hour.
As I was turning the corner into the Tim Horton’s parking lot, a male in a BMW swerved in front of me causing me to slam on my brakes. “Cool the Jets!” I yelled and got ready to rumble when he pulled into the first of the only two open parking spots. “Asshole,” I said.
The man in the suit jumped out his car, left his engine running, and started unbuckling his belt. Shit, I thought, I’m going to have to wee in my pants, cause there is NO WAY I’m letting this ignoramus get away without a tongue lashing. THE NERVE!
I never got the chance.
As I was climbing out of my vehicle, preparing for battle, the man ran as far down the embankment as he could, about ten metres from where I stood, pulled down his pants and urinated. “OH GOD, I’m sorry,” he shouted over his shoulder, “I would never have made it inside.” I laughed… at his lily white arse cheeks and his crumpled shirt, and his bright red neck. “I’m so so sorry,” he called again. And he peed and he peed and he peed— Victoria Falls.
“It’s alright,” I said, “But I want you to acknowledge that as a woman I could never do that— in fact, I just wet my pants a little.” And he laughed, and I laughed and then I went inside to empty my bladder as only a woman must.
If you have followed my blogs in the past, you may remember many a rant about the injustice that I feel is womanhood. I’ve raged about menstruation, about body maintenance and about the angst of ageing. Since I am just starting up again after a long sabbatical, I thought it behooves me to remind you, dear reader, of my ongoing battle to highlight the discrepancy regarding the evolutionary scale. The weight tips heavily against us gals.
Take a look at the feminine variant of any species. Except for a few insects, like the Praying Mantis or the Black Widow Spider, those cows get to kill and eat their male partners, the female always draws the short straw when it comes to survival. And, why do male birds get to be more beautiful than the female birds? That shit is unfair! As a human female, I will have exponentially more to deal with over the span of my life than any male… with regards to biology that it.
I attempted a ketogenic diet about a year ago. I felt fine for a few months, lost some weight, and then bam I started feeling like death. I googled the hell out of the symptoms and lo and behold, it turns out… I am female, duh. The average ketogenic diet that you see splashed over your Facebook newsfeed, the basic eat fat, kill carbs guideline works wonders for humans who are not tormented by their endocrine systems, aka— males. The average male experiences seven hormonal changes in his lifespan; the average female navigates seven hormonal changes EVERY MONTH. Last week I could get by on eleven grams of carbohydrates, this week I need twenty-two, next week… John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt!!!
Listen, let’s not let this blog be about feminism or me too or patriarchy (we’ll leave those for another day when the boys are not hiding). Let’s not make this about things we can change. This here rant is about the shit that is unchangeable; we’re talking about evolution or the rotten hand God has dealt us— we’re talking about females bearing the brunt of some biological joke. And it’s about time we take control of the punchline!
I like the idea of four-day work weeks. But not for men. I think that us chickipoos should be afforded the extra day off as compensation for carrying the lions share of procreation. And it doesn’t matter if you’ve never produced offspring— if you’ve ever had to use sanitary napkins or tampons or take hormone supplements for your hot flashes… you’re getting a day off! And because we’re excellent multi-taskers, us women, we’ll make sure to put our ‘bonus day’ to good use. We’ll use that time to do all the extra things society expects us to ‘maintain’— we could get all the waxing, and shaving and dying and blow-drying done (society has some hairy expectations, right?!).
There seems to me to be a never-ending list of chores that I have to get my daughter to do (pertaining to her biology and physical upkeep) that I will never have to get my son to do. When Jude moans that Morgan is taking too long to get ready, or he sneers that he can get out the door quicker, I list off every single one of the duties his sister will have to do for the rest of her life that he never even has to think about. He’ll damn well understand the biological burden a female carries, or my name is not Mommy Dearest!
In a perfect world, a world where women get a handicap for being biologically burdened, Man-of-the-hour, the urinating suited guy, should have forfeited something for his ability to pee in public. It’s only fair. Since I couldn’t just cop-a-squat on the sidewalk, I think he should have been required to pay for my next coffee.
Cause, ya know I got another cup of coffee right? Obviously. Stimulants!!