I Wish I Was a Man...

Hi my name is Kelly. It has been four days since my last date and I am exhausted. Dear cupid, please forgive me. 

This is how the conversation started, a confession, a tear (a rather rigid tear) and I hoped a voice would boom down and bestow some profound nuance of advice that would cheer me up; a rather manly towel whip to the ass in the sports change room of life, right? Wrong.

I love being a woman. I love that we have suffered, endured and beat our emotions to our wonderbra-ed bossom. We are complicated, emotional, and subtly aggressive. I love that we actually think about sex more than men do, but we multitask, you see; we can plan a birthday party for a three-year-old, fetch and carry in a carpool, make sure dinner has five food groups, know that a sniff isn’t always just a sniff, hold down a job, do our hair, plan an outfit, be on time and still, yes, still think about sex. 

Our bodies are even more complex, our nether regions almost hidden and coy, still somehow, making men go searching, as if to prove his worth on knowing where it is. We do all of this, in the same amount of time it takes some men to type 'Beyonce's ass' into the Google search engine.

Oh, I am not bashing men. I do love them. I adore and envy the simplicity of men; the way they require minimal effort in choice of clothing, emotional return, and what you put on their plate. They are the logical thinkers; they are hardly ever confused, driven, and playful, and with a single look can bring us women, the great and powerful woman, to her knees.

Our complex nature as two opposing genders is no secret; there are books about it, drunken conversations and debates, and even university degrees. But this doesn’t help me, and probably leaves you wondering why I am harping on about this.

Thing is all of this takes place in the rather complicated arena of dating. Two incredibly complex, emotionally charged and sexually driven genders in one room, add some candles, a few beverages (alcoholic) and mix it up. The world becomes even more complicated. 

Hello! It’s Kelly. Waving. Life. You. Yes, You. Duuh. 

So you nab a guy. He ticks all the boxes. You get emotionally involved. You even take part in an adult sleep over. But he doesn’t call you, but if you’re anything like me, you spend four hours in the mirror looking at your body the way a man would, tugging, pinching, oh and eating tubs of ice cream. It then hits you, since when did punching the guy you liked under the swing lose its appeal? 

Dating books tell women that you have to ignore the guy, he’ll come panting back to you, but the essay of my “self-satisfied feministic view” of how it’s high time he took me to dinner, really doesn’t get covered. Since when do we have to relinquish control in the game of dating? Allow the opposite gender to decide on our happiness – yes, men, this does apply to you; we know the lovely-lady lumps got you all shook up and dropping dollars like the Chris Brown impersonator you are.

It must be easy to be a guy in a situation like this, because you’re built of utter calm and logical thinking; you sit back and watch the hyena’s fight. Well, that is the dramatic image I have when you haven’t responded to my text in exactly three days. You need three things: sex, food, beer; or according to my cousin that is.

I am built to get things done. I have days to get through, a job, a life, and a scarf I have been knitting since summer. I don’t have time to ponder when you’re going to ask me out; Or if you’re mad; Or if you hated my laugh. It makes me anxious. I need you to tell me: I am just really busy. OR God help you: I like you, easy does. Why is that so difficult?


Oh for goodness sake. I ask you dear cupid, please. PLEASE send me a man with balls bigger than mine.