I like to live dangerously and this is probably as dangerous as it gets. If I haven’t alienated the female members of the human race already, I certainly could do after this post.
I want to talk about women, yet again, but this time I want to discuss how the fair sex can be a problem to men. As much as we love them, they can be a major headache for us - sometimes.
As I have said before, I really struggle to get my head around the female sex, but I know that I am not alone. In fact, I will go further and say that no man alive really understands women. Any man who claims to is a fibber, and a big one at that.
I have moments of delusion when the antics of Mrs PM and other women appear to make perfect sense. When such moments occur, I celebrate and say to myself: at last, finally, I know what goes on in the female brain. My euphoria is usually short lived because Mrs PM stuns me by reacting totally different to expectation, crushing my jubilation to an embarrassing pulp.
But it’s worse than that because understanding women is not the only problem for men; it’s the whole female package. What do I mean by that? Allow me to elaborate.
Like most men, I love to admire a beautiful woman. I do so subconsciously, my eyes driven by a primeval force that I can’t control. Most men are the same.
Many years ago, when I was a young idiot, a female friend and I were chatting when the conversation drifted towards a mutual acquaintance.
“He’s a nice guy,” she said, “but he is a total letch.”
“A letch?” I asked. “What do you mean? What’s a letch?”
“Well when he’s talking to me, he doesn’t look at my face.”
Puzzled (and stupid) I probed further.
“That’s a bit rude isn’t it? Or maybe he’s just shy. I’m a bit like that – I tend to look away sometimes when talking to people.”
“Oh he’s definitely NOT shy,” she said. “When he talks to me, he just stares at my boobs.”
“Ah!” I stuttered.
And my eyes were suddenly drawn to her boobs. I couldn’t help myself; I was a young testosterone-fuelled male, listening to a female complaining about a man who stared at her like she was an object of lust – and I was doing exactly the same. I tried to force my eyes upwards to her face but all I could focus on was her cleavage. It was as if I had two devils sitting on my shoulders.
“Cop an eyeful of those,” growled the demon.
“Look at her face; she will despise you,” said the angel.
In my defence, I couldn’t help myself. Any heterosexual man who claims that he doesn’t stare at attractive women is an absolute liar. That’s a bold statement but I consider it to be absolutely true.
In my youth, I would walk down the street analysing every single women who walked past me, eyeing each one up and down; her hair, her face, her boobs, her figure, her legs, her overall shape and imagining how wonderful it would be to be walking next to this attractive creature with my arm around her waist, smelling her wonderful perfume. My imagination sometimes ran amok.
Even though I was in a relationship, I simply couldn’t help myself. Having listened to my female friend complaining about lechers, I became self-conscious and forced myself not to stare. But sometimes (most times if I am perfectly honest) I failed spectacularly. When confronted by a hideously ugly bloke with his tongue dragging on the floor, leering like a starving bulldog leaving a trail of dribble behind like a monstrous slug, most women simply looked away. Others glared with venom in their eyes and violence in their thoughts.
Nowadays, of course, I don’t look like some manic sexually charged animal; however, I still appreciate a beautiful woman and although I am in my mid-forties I find myself occasionally appreciating the beauty of women in their twenties. It can be embarrassing though if my eyes rebel and drift up and down their bodies as they are talking to me. I try my best to look into their eyes – but that too can get me into trouble. The only thing that has changed since my youthful days is that I still find many women in their forties gorgeous as well.
You will often hear the old adage that says that men think about sex approximately every seven seconds. This is utter bilge; when I was young I never ever stopped thinking about sex; every young woman I met was a potential conquest. It was just a pity that I didn’t have the means to win those battles. If a woman were to somehow manage to get past my ape-like features, my “witty banter” poured forth like a wave of demented twaddle. I didn’t know how to talk to women so how could I make one love me?
Of course, as you have probably gathered, I managed to find myself a woman crazy enough to put up with me (something else I have never understood). Once I had overcome that barrier I was delighted. Something slotted into place within and I became a different person.
Thus, I moved from being an idiotic sex-crazed baboon to being a contented young man happy to settle down with a woman who loved me; and a new challenge arose and slapped me across the face.
Living with a woman is a massively rewarding experience and I wouldn’t change many things. I would however give anything to solve the particular problems that the experience of living together creates. They are not massive problems by any means but I do feel powerless to react. I’m an educated person who loves to solve problems; but I am frustrated because the solutions to these particular conundrums elude me.
Here are a few examples:
Why does a woman dress to impress other women instead of other men? I discovered this disturbing trait fairly recently. We were going out with a couple of friends and all of the women complemented each other on how they were dressed. Mrs PM had changed her clothes several times before going out and each time I said “You look gorgeous. What’s the problem?”
She confessed that she had to look better than her friends – or at least as good as them. As a man this was a completely alien concept to me. I would have gone out in jeans and a T-shirt if I could have done and I wouldn’t have cared one jot what my mates thought about my attire. Yet she, and all the other women were desperate to impress each other and not the guys who were there.
Why do two men chat to each other on the phone for about twenty seconds and women for about twenty hours?
Why does Mrs PM hide clothes that she doesn’t want me to wear? Mrs PM feels a desperate urge to approve any clothes that I buy. If, for some reason, I manage to escape to a clothes shop without her being present, and then buy something she hasn’t vetted, I can guarantee that if she doesn’t like it, she will remove it from my wardrobe and hide it somewhere. And she will lie to me as well.
Me: “What do you think of this shirt?”
Mrs PM (through gritted teeth):”It’s … erm … nice. Why did you buy it?”
Me: “I like it. Why do you ask?”
Mrs PM: “Erm no reason”
A week later you can guarantee it has gone missing.
Me: “Where’s that yellow shirt I bought last week?”
Mrs PM: “What yellow shirt?”
Me: “The one I bought last week that you said was nice.”
Mrs PM: “Yellow doesn’t suit you. Put on the blue shirt.”
Me:”You’ve hidden it haven’t you?”
Mrs PM: “No!”
Another bone of contention is doing stuff around the house. I’ve learned that little things really matter. For example, if a man spends the whole day decorating the room, he can suffer because he has only done one thing. Why for example, didn’t he do the washing up? This particular problem may not be true of all women, but I do know that if on a Saturday, I get up and spend two hours hoovering , cleaning the kitchen and loading the dishwasher, Mrs PM will be happier than if I spend three hours washing the cars. Why? Because I have completed three tasks instead of just the one.
I’m sure that not all women are like this but some, like Mrs PM, definitely are.
What about when you say the wrong thing? Mrs PM and I don’t argue very much at all but when we do it is usually because I have somehow put my foot in it by saying something I think is perfectly reasonable and totally truthful, yet somehow it pushes the anger button within Mrs PM’s psyche. The end result is that I am berated for something I simply do not understand; when I protest my innocence it is like trying to put out a fire with a nuclear warhead. The snowball effect has nothing on these arguments.
I’ve learned to shut up and let Mrs PM burn herself out. And then, most of the time, I can repair the damage with a bunch of flowers, a box of chocolates or a cuddly toy.
See what I mean? Women can sometimes be so illogical that they give men an horrific headache.
Regular readers will probably be thinking:
“For heaven’s sake, Plastic Moron! Women aren’t that difficult to understand. Are you completely deranged? Are you just stupid? Will you please stop going on about women?”
To those people I say this:
I may be stupid but I need to understand women. The theme of this post implies that women are a problem for men. They are definitely not – not really - well sometimes.
What I am trying to do is to draw your attention, dear female reader, to the fact that we simply do not understand you and, that you simply do not understand us back.
We stare and gawp at gorgeous women because we love looking at the beautiful female form. Although some of us may be lechers, the majority are not but are driven by a primeval urge. Our goals are different from yours.
When we live with women, they think that we are lazy good-for-nothing emotionless imbeciles with no compassion who simply want to drink or watch and play sports. There is some truth in that but again we can’t help it. While a bunch of flowers or a box of chocolates will make ladies happy, just letting a man go to the toilet with a newspaper for ten minutes will make him happy. While you want to spend three hours on the phone chatting to your best friend about emotional issues, we are quite happy to get a mate round and watch the big game with several cans of beer and testosterone-fuelled aggression.
When your man screams during a football match because his team have just conceded a goal, don’t scold him because he has spilled beer on the floor. Embrace him and make him feel better. Don’t ask stupid questions like “which team is winning?” or “who’s playing?” or “what a good goal that was. Was that your team?”
When your man hoovers the house, don’t scold him for not loading the dishwasher and filling the washing machine. He will do it next time if you thank him.
When a man stares at you in the street, it is because you are beautiful, not because he is a lecherous drooling baboon (even if I am – I can’t help it).
We should embrace our differences and try to understand each other.
If any women are annoyed by this post, please understand that this is not my intention. I adore women and I respect them with all my heart. Women are beautiful, kind, intelligent creatures and I love you all to bits. I have also ignored something a friend of mine once said:
“All women, without exception, are mad.”
He simply has bigger problems than me understanding the fairer sex. Don’t be too hard on him – he is a goon. That sentiment certainly does not exist on this blog (although it may seem the case sometimes).
I’m off now to watch the big game. I will require the following items:
A TV and a can of beer and a lot of patience (for when Mrs PM comes in and asks me why I didn’t dust when I hoovered earlier today).