Penis Envy... no really...
Despite what they teach you in psychology 101, I think girls don’t really have penis envy until after they’ve had to work their uteruses (uteri?) a couple of times. It’s only after the broody fruits of the womb have turned the sunshine of your life into Ground Zero that you look around and realise that the pecking order is decided by the cocks.
Oh yes, a veritable V8 of mixed metaphors. But if you knew how long it took to type that sentence while I saved myself from losing my train of thought by saving my almost 9 month old from pulling furniture on her head…
Where were we? Penis envy. Yes. I have penis envy. I am four months shy of turning 32 and years after I made peace with my breasts, peace with my mother, yes, even peace with my gargantuan bum… I now wish I was a man.
Watching television… let me qualify: watching television as the 9 month old randomly flicked channels I saw a teaser for a show that would, they said, tell you all about boys… and their toys. But there wasn’t a boy there onscreen. No… only grown men who frankly could do with a day of beauty and a lesson in posture, playing with small expensive easily breakable electronic status symbols. I stared as the television flicked past the mediocre recipe shows, the house-breaking shows, Mr Bean… I was transfixed. Boys will always be boys. Then how on earth can it be a man’s world?!
Deep in the heartlands, tucked away at the bottom of the Himalayas, it will take you three days to walk to Malana. I’ve heard that the main business here is to roll out the resin off the marijuana plants and pack it and send it to yuppies in cities where they smoke it and think deep thoughts and talk deep shit.
Malana is run by the women. They grow it, harvest it, pack it, export it (surreptiously of course). The men meanwhile lie around in a stupor, bereft of the authority that comes from a patriarchal society. Polyandry makes sure that they always have to take care of children from multiple partners. They are probably thrown a few coppers for food or track pants or the odd moisturiser and now and then I’m sure some of the women pat them on the head and sing them ‘wind beneath my wings’. I’m not sure if the men ever look in the mirror and wonder how they’re going to get back into the rat race when they’ve been running the brat race so long. Perhaps they don’t. Perhaps their toys are still unbreakable, brightly coloured and made by Fisherprice.
Oh yes, a veritable V8 of mixed metaphors. But if you knew how long it took to type that sentence while I saved myself from losing my train of thought by saving my almost 9 month old from pulling furniture on her head…
Where were we? Penis envy. Yes. I have penis envy. I am four months shy of turning 32 and years after I made peace with my breasts, peace with my mother, yes, even peace with my gargantuan bum… I now wish I was a man.
Watching television… let me qualify: watching television as the 9 month old randomly flicked channels I saw a teaser for a show that would, they said, tell you all about boys… and their toys. But there wasn’t a boy there onscreen. No… only grown men who frankly could do with a day of beauty and a lesson in posture, playing with small expensive easily breakable electronic status symbols. I stared as the television flicked past the mediocre recipe shows, the house-breaking shows, Mr Bean… I was transfixed. Boys will always be boys. Then how on earth can it be a man’s world?!
Deep in the heartlands, tucked away at the bottom of the Himalayas, it will take you three days to walk to Malana. I’ve heard that the main business here is to roll out the resin off the marijuana plants and pack it and send it to yuppies in cities where they smoke it and think deep thoughts and talk deep shit.
Malana is run by the women. They grow it, harvest it, pack it, export it (surreptiously of course). The men meanwhile lie around in a stupor, bereft of the authority that comes from a patriarchal society. Polyandry makes sure that they always have to take care of children from multiple partners. They are probably thrown a few coppers for food or track pants or the odd moisturiser and now and then I’m sure some of the women pat them on the head and sing them ‘wind beneath my wings’. I’m not sure if the men ever look in the mirror and wonder how they’re going to get back into the rat race when they’ve been running the brat race so long. Perhaps they don’t. Perhaps their toys are still unbreakable, brightly coloured and made by Fisherprice.
posted by genesia at
6:39 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home