There are times I wish I was a man:
When there isn’t a rest stop in sight and Ineed to pee.
When I want to put my fist in someone’sface.
When I need to take my car to the mechanic.
When… oh hell, that’s about it.
There are times when I grateful beyondmeasure that I am a woman (hear me roar!).
Testosterone must be a terriblechallenge to live with. Outnumbered by men in my home I am starting to acceptthat living with testosterone is a biological hazard.
Once that man switch getsflicked there is nothing a woman can do but sit back and watch the situationunfold.
Lightning splits the sky.
A curtain of rainfalls to earth.
Men scramble through the mud to the safety of their cars.
Simultaneously they all edge towards the exit.
The switch is flicked.
It is notabout getting home anymore.
It is war.
It is about being first – no matterwhat.
The field on which they parked now turned into an ancient battlefieldwhere man takes on man in a primordial battle for supremacy.
It is every manfor himself.
Women and children sit mute as their alpha males enter the fray.
It was about now that my husband decidedthat he would rather die than let the Toyota Landcruiser take the forwardposition.
Me: “Darling. He’s already driven over twotraffic cones. I don’t think he is in a very good mood. Perhaps we should allowhim to go first?”
Him: “No! I refuse. I was here first andI’ll be damned if I let him in.”
I shut up, regarding it as the most prudentcourse of action. About, oh, 30 seconds later the Landcruiser driver rammedinto the back of our compact little Ford. Then he reversed and rammed us again.I started to pray.
Husband: “I’m getting out.”
Me in tones of pure ice: “No, you are not.I told you he was not in a good mood. I have his registration. Just let it go.”
Husband opening door: “I’m going to takehis picture!”
Me: “By all means, if getting a fist inyour face is how you’d like this evening to end. And once we are home, I’llknee you in the balls for being a stupid idiot. Let. It. Go.”
Did I mention my mother was in the car? No?Well she was. Awkward much? We tried, we really did, not to take the piss. Wefailed.
Halfway home, my husband is ready to turnthe car around and scour the streets for the Toyota driving maniac. By now hehas convinced himself that he has let himself down as a man. A real man wouldhave got out of the car and indulged in a bit of old fashioned mud wrestling.
That was three days ago. Each morning atthe school he eyes each Toyota Landcruiser with an Attila the Hun type of gleamin his eye.
Him: “Is that it? Was that him?”
Me: “What are you doing to do if you findhim exactly?”
Him: “I’ll key his bloody car, that’s whatI’ll do.”
Me: “Wasn’t it you who once told me thattwo wrongs don’t make a right?”
Him: “It’s not about bloody right andwrong. It’s about satisfaction. God! Don’t you understand men at all?”