To all who are offended by rampant generalizations: stop reading this now.
Over the years, particularly in the recent, a profound distinction has come to my attention. It sounds ridiculous, like finally noticing the sky and running around to announce that you’ve determined its color, but this is more of a change in philosophy. After a lifetime of categorically lumping humans into one universal sort of entity, my mind has been changed. Now I see.
I refer not to dangly parts and the tubes they seek to infiltrate: I refer to an irrevocable separation on an ontological level.
Men and women, boys and girls, pimps and ho’s. While the differences are conducive to the perpetuation of our existence as a species, I’ve come to believe that we should be in separate genuses. Geni? (‘Penis’ does not multiply to ‘peni’, and since I will reference them in the following, let’s stick to genuses for now.)
Biology is clever—that one fucking final chromosome. So many times I have wished away my second x (my second ex, too, but that’s a whole other essay) in exchange for a seemingly self-sufficient y. As a 7 year-old, playing in the mud and beating up that bitch Olivia who got the role of Alice while I had to play the Cheshire cat. Or breaking the news to my Montessori class that Santa, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy are all a ruse orchestrated by silly parents who reward their children with unwarranted treats. Even in middle school, wearing big brother’s dark baggy clothes to mask rolls of fat and convince the world that I didn’t mind them replicating The Exorcist stairs atop my jeans whenever I sat down. To be fair, I am thankful that I inherited just two sex chromosomes from my parents, both x’s or not, because I’ve seen what happens when shit goes wrong.
I’ve tried to be a boy. Now, as a woman, I try to be a man—society’s construction of one, that is. Ambitious, driven and independent, capable of certain forms of intimacy without any marginal attachment. The first part may be true, but who the fuck am I kidding?
We’re built this way for a reason. Yet I see so many fellow females forgoing, sometimes silencing rather violently, their very essence. Cognitive theory accounts for anorexia as a woman’s urge to shed her curves in order to appear more masculine and therefore more “successful.” This upsets me. I’d like to be successful and hang on to my junk in the trunk (The Exorcist stairs are gone but by no means do I have the angular lines of a dude.) Most may frown upon the abuse of feminine charms but I find it to be, in addition to a whole lot of fun, quite effective. I’ve averted many a ticket, gotten many a free drink, and secured many a favor simply by batting my eyes.
Is that degrading? My answer is a resounding and emphatic NO. It’s pretty fucking awesome. Physical appearance is a naturally given attribute that can be cultivated or neglected, much like intellect, talent, or any other field of capability that a human’s genes account for. I believe the reaction range applies to all facets of a person, not just the metaphysical—you don’t have to look like Megan Fox to do it either. God knows I don’t. Rather, the coy ways of a woman lie in body language and self-assuredness.
As for men. Ah, men! They have coy ways of their own. I personally find the primal and brutish to be irresistible, especially when the beast can maintain a challenging conversation. Call me misandrous but I find them primitive in their basic desires: food, sex, and sleep. While this would sound on the surface like a deep insult, most men I know both condone and propagate this notion. It’s painfully endearing. Sure women need these too, but we are noticeably more complex. The thing is, our penis-wielding counterparts do not ruminate. They don’t revise a flirty text message 74 times with 12 different friends, debating whether or not to add a smiley face at the end. They just send it. I can’t say I don’t partake. I did it just last night.
When it comes to interactions between the two, sometimes a result of such a meticulously constructed message, more dissonance arises. Women. Get. Attached. So quickly too! It could be a need for validation and affection. Again, I may to some sound like a raging sexist, but this is based on observation both autobiographical and otherwise. I’m on Team Human. I’m just trying to understand how he hell we work. Whatever the case, men are slower to warm up and slower to care. And yet! The tables tend to turn. I can think of very few relationships that ended and found the woman begging for the man back months later. It’s always the guy. Because once that wall finally comes down, it’s very hard to erect it again (pun fully intended.)
The best example of this is the ex. That one girl the new man you’re interested in mentions subtly (or not so subtly in some cases. I heard about this one whore before I even met the boy.) He won’t usually give away her name—no, no! She’s sacred! She’s sent from the heavens, and doesn’t defecate, or urinate, or vomit profusely when she’s drunk. Her farts smell like potpourri and she’s just like, “such a good person. Really. So nice.”
I for one believe that anyone who can be summed up with ‘nice’ is a waste of oxygen. But anyway.
It’s really quite moving: She’s the one who hurt him, poor thing, and broke him, and that’s the reason why he doesn’t like to commit. That’s the reason he’s a complete dick. That’s the reason he doesn’t trust women. Ok… really now? Let’s grow up, boys. If my worldview was fucked every time I’ve been hurt by someone, it would have died of neurosyphylis by now. I return to the notion that men are simple creatures. They feign indifference instead of attempting resilience, which we as females have mastered to impeccable heights. Bad breakups for us are followed by a pathetic period of wallowing, excessive weight gain, a selection of songs that make us hysterical, and then we’re good to go. Next in line, please! Men on the other hand carry that bitch around for the rest of their lives. That proverbial figure in the background that usually has the IQ and personality of the mismatched socks that currently cocoon my cold feet.
Damn this is getting long. I guess what I’m trying to say is that humans actually can’t be lumped into one genre of creature. Neither is congruency necessary for equality; dualists never preferred one kind of stuff to another. So women, be women. Cry and get fat. Gossip and scheme. Spend hours at your mirror. Make fun of his ugly shoes when he doesn’t call you back, because we can do all that and still get shit done. And boys, be boys. You’re hard to reach and understand, and we love you for it.