Penis Envy
Do I Need To Slap You?
Driving down the freeway the other day, I saw a man riding his motorcycle. He was in his mid-to-late forties, a little overweight, dark, curly hair a little too long down the neck, wearing jeans, boots – and probably a gold chain necklace of some kind, (although I didn’t get that close).
And I was envious.
His posture on the bike was expansive, strong, and maybe even a bit arrogant. I could guess that when he sits on a sofa his legs go wide and he stretches his arms out across the top to take up as much space as possible. He and the boys go out to a steak place and linger for hours over cigars, while the waitresses fawn over them. And then they go to the mens’ room and have huge pees that don’t require a complete rearrange of skirt, lingerie and hosiery, not to mention tampon exchange and lipstick touch-up.
And I am envious.
Later, when he gets home that night, his (younger) girlfriend greets him at the door, a little miffed he came home so late – but at least it’s before midnight. He gives her a big hug and a sloppy kiss, and says something nice about her ass, and she feels better about everything, and then after they go to bed, and he has sex with her, he strokes her hair for a few minutes until she falls asleep, rolls over and snores soundly for 8 hours.
And I am envious.
As much as I like to act or say otherwise, I still believe men have it easier. There’s a sense of “self” we girls tend not to have. We always have a sense of “others.” We are hard-wired to think about other people and their feelings, and how we relate to them.
Men are celebrated as explorers, leaders, vanguards. Rugged individualists who are evaluated on their achievements almost exclusively. It doesn’t matter what their hair is like, or what handbags they carry.
I would love to be able to “swagger.” To exhibit that macho charisma. I wish having an orgasm was more straightforward. I’d like to pee standing up – without having it all go down my leg. I wish I could stop coloring my hair and look “distinguished.” It sure would be easier if my wardrobe consisted solely of “pants” and “shirts.”
But it’s not to be. I’m a chick, and I’m trying to do the best with what I’ve got – which includes my five pairs of black boots (all different heels/toes),18 pairs of jeans (one for each 2 lb increment over my “ideal weight” last achieved in 1994), 27 different lipsticks (variations of the same shade, except for the one experiment I never wear), 325 half-used bottles of hair products that never really gave me the frizz-free results promised, and…and…
I guess I don’t really want to be a man, or a butch version of myself. I just wish I could have that confidence, that assumption of my rightful place in the world. I guess I’m not too far off the mark. I’ve never planned my life based on the assumption that a man will be in it to take care of me. I always figure if I haven’t achieved something yet, it’s not because I’m a woman, it’s because I haven’t wanted it enough or worked hard enough for it.
As I continued to consider the man on the motorcycle, I realized I needed to give myself a little slap for being such a weenie, and wallowing in my shallow puddle of pre-menstrual insecurity.
The insouciant, devil-may-care bravado I wish I could possess has very little to do with what’s between my legs and everything to do with what’s between my ears.
