Today's post was inspired by a letter written by an Austin woman to the company, Proctor and Gamble.
The Letter can be found here and I highly recommend all my female readers read it immediately.
On that note, I dated a
man boy a couple of years ago that held theories such as:
- Pregnancy is harder on the husband
- and, cramps can be no worse than getting kicked in the balls.
Luckily, I wasn't currently pregnant or menstruating when he shared these theories with me, or I very much doubt he would have ever had to worry about getting kicked in the balls let alone getting someone pregnant. (read: castration)
Really, though, what an absolutely ridiculous thing to say to a female. Unless you've ever bled for 6 days without dying, felt like your insides were devouring themselves, or had the overpowering urge to stab the unassuming person sitting next you in class whilst crying and eating a peanut butter and pickle sandwich...for a week, you have no room to assume anything about what a period feels like.
Also, pregnancy is worse for the husband? Now, I've never been pregnant, but I think I have a pretty good understanding of what it entails for the woman and I've witnessed a good amount of pregnancies. Perhaps the husband does have to make late night runs to the store because apple juice, pixie sticks and scallops wrapped in bacon are necessary immediately and maybe he witnesses bouts of screaming and crying because he made an off hand comment about how his wife's favorite actor on that show she loves so much slightly resembles a transvestite he knew in college, but just think about what's causing these cravings and rage. There is a human living inside of her that is apparently a very apt tap dancer, her hormones no longer have any semblance of order, she has to pee constantly, nothing she owns fits her, she has no way of knowing if her shoes match the rest of what she's wearing...or each other, she waddles, and all she wanted was a little bit of damn bacon and to watch her show in peace.
I guess the gist is that we're sorry for calling you those horrible names in the middle of the Wendy's, we can't remember where we learned
that word those words, no, shopping won't help because nothing fits or looks good and it'll only make us cry more, we really don't hate your mother, but we really do hate those brown shoes you wear with your black pants, we feel no remorse for stabbing you in the hand with the fork (don't touch the triple baconator) and we'll think the transvestite comment is funny in a few years.