It took my 15-year-old incontinent male dog to teach me about the plight of women.
Though surrounded by them — at work and at home — I have long been ignorant to the routine ordeals endured by the fairer sex. And I’m not referring to social issues like equal pay for equal work or the ridiculous amount you pay for haircuts, but rather those injustices laid upon you by Mother Nature, who, frankly, seems more Maleficent than motherly.
Now I wasn’t totally oblivious, but mostly a passive observer.
I was there when My Lovely Wife was cut open like a watermelon at a Fourth of July picnic in order to bring Jellybean into this world. And I sat in the emergency room a few weeks later, Jellybean sleeping in my arms, when complications from that C-section nearly killed my wife.
I’m familiar with the embarrassing reality of “boob sweat” and the jiggling underarm fat known as “lady meat” or “Bingo Arms.”
I worship the female form for all its beauty, grace and life-bearing abilities, but in general, daily practice ya’ll get kinda screwed — biologically speaking.
Men have it made. All we have to worry about is premature balding, proctological exams and losing football seasons. But these days it’s cool to be bald — Bruce Willis, Samuel L. Jackson, Elmer Fudd. We don’t have to get poked and prodded by the doctor until we’re like 50 and only Alabama fans really have nothing better to do (sorry … War Eagle!).
Granted, we die sooner, so that kinda evens things out, but still.
Women have to get their boobs smooshed in some X-ray machine, and then doctors inspect your nether regions like a spelunker exploring an uncharted cave. And that’s not even considering all the plucking, tucking, waxing, crimping and shaving women do mainly just to impress us dumb guys.
But it’s the indignities women face during their monthlies that shocked me most. Apologies … my female jargon comes from Poison videos, John Hughes films and the Internet, none of which could be considered quality educational tools.
This newfound sympathy comes thanks to my old dog who can no longer control his bladder. I’ve tried doggie diapers to no avail, and so, thanks to Amazon, I’ve have moved on to washable diapers, which, according to all the online reviews, work best when coupled with feminine pads for greater absorbency.
Thus my odyssey to CVS, where I stood for way too long weighing such things as the difference between pads and panty liners, whether or not I needed wings and the degree of flow I could expect — all before choosing from 748 different brands. All I knew for certain was that this was no time to go generic.
I thought jeans, bras and bath lotion shopping for women had to be challenging, but this was like “Inception” versus “Dumb and Dumber” in terms of intellectual complexity and problem solving.
How do women do this every month? No wonder they’re irritable. Women put up with all this nonsense, only to come home to some smelly dude complaining about having to mow the lawn, all the while they’re hemorrhaging. I couldn’t blame you for plotting our demise.
My Lovely Wife came to the rescue. After my purchase and having stood in their shoes for the briefest of moments, I promised to show greater respect, patience and understanding toward all women. To which My Lovely Wife, as if having waited the entirety of our relationship for such a rambling revelation, responded simply, “You should.”
Smart woman, making me a lucky dog … and not the only one.