Majorly English

Originally ran on May 15, 2005:

Gentlemen, we love ladies, right? In fact, women are probably our all-consuming interest in life, pursuing them relentlessly in order to altruistically propagate the species in the name of Darwinism. However, there comes a time in every man’s life where he finds himself drawn away from the XX’s. That time is called the “time of the month.” Yes, I’m talking about periods, the infamous time in every young man’s life where he lives for five to ten days in constant fear of the raving lunatic that has replaced his special lady. Three weeks out of the month, we men are lucky enough to date cool, intelligent, attractive women. However, for that one week a month we date a creature so insane, Charles Manson would change seats on the bus if it sat next to him.
Now, we bring some of this misery onto ourselves, fellas. We tend to be deliberately ignorant about the whole issue. I’m no different. If my girlfriend, my sister, or my Oprah Winfrey begins discussing those “female problems,” I run away as fast as possible. In order to recover some of my lost machismo from hearing the first 1.8 seconds of the discussion, I ride a motorcycle while watching Ultimate Fighting and eating raw beef. For some reason, men sprint from “female situation” conversations like the sound of the word “menstruation” will have a similar effect on our faces as opening the Ark of the Covenant in Raiders of the Lost Ark.
Nonetheless, that is not to say that woman do not hold a share of the blame as well. The female population of this planet has made strong efforts to deliberately lull men into a false sense of security regarding their reproductive organs, only to strike when we least expect it! Consider the name of the bane of our existence: the period. What is a “period”? For one thing, it is the grammatical ending of a sentence, and an unremarkable sentence at that. “The monkey was eating Rocky Road ice cream on a unicycle.” That’s a strong use of a “period.” It doesn’t get much more unremarkable than that. Also, a “period” is demarcation of time. In fact, “period” as a separation of time is used most often where? Sports! The women have gotten into our only safe haven, men, and spread their “freshness problems” all over it! That’s right, the term used to describe the event that turns women into biological time bombs also is used to describe the most mundane of sentences as well as our way of knowing how far into the hockey game we are. It’s a conspiracy, I tell you!
Due to my inherent trepidation of the female reproductive system and the covert scheming of women, I find myself unclear as to what exactly goes on during that week or so. However, through extensive research of episodes of Starting Over and The Jane Pauly Show, I think I’ve begun to nail down what exactly happens during that mystical week where men are more terrified than Imelda Marcos at Payless. From what I can discern, when a woman has her “special visitor,” she must pour a blue liquid from a test tube onto a very small diaper, which will leak onto a hardwood table, and she will be sad. Then she must pour more blue liquid on another diaper, and this diaper is wonderfully absorbent and breezily comfortable, and she will be happy. Then she will ride in a hot air balloon.
But where does this leave us, gents? It doesn’t make sense! If once a month my reproductive system demanded that I frolic through a daisy-festooned field while the Indigo Girls played in the background, I’d be one happy camper. Not the case with the ladies. Whenever ”Aunt Flo” crashes on the couch, our women become frothing lunatics of the highest degree. I’m sure each one of us has had this interaction with a significant other at some point:
Man: Hey, honey, what do you think we should have for dinner? How about Chinese?
Woman: Why are you always force-feeding me that garbage?? It’s not like I’m not fat enough as it is!! Is it that you’re so dumb you don’t even realize that I’m not interested in reaching Shamu-like proportions, or are you deliberately trying to make me emulate the Goodyear blimp?!?
Rational Male: So . . . pizza?
Disturbed Female: And another thing, when’s the last time you’ve done ANYTHING nice for me? I mean, it’s like I don’t even exist to you!! You just watch your football games, and drink your beer like the pig you are!! How about some flowers, or a box of chocolates, or would that require too much effort to remove your fat ass from the couch?!?! My mother was right, you are a slob!!!
Caring, Sensitive Boyfriend: Darling, are you okay? Maybe I’ll just heat up a Hot Pocket from the freezer tonight. I-I-If that’s okay with you, that is.
Raving Psycho: I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU!!!! (gnaws on table leg)
Men, the sad fact of the matter is, once a month, we have to deal with our special ladies becoming our special asylum inmate. However, there is a light at the end of the tunnel, and it’s called Menopause! Yes, someday, off in the distant future, your woman will stop having monthly visits from the Bloating Fairy. Of course, both of you will be past your prime and entering the twilight of your lives, but it’s not that bad. Have you ever really looked at a retired man, whether he be hitting the links, or enjoying a meal at a Ponderosa Steakhouse? That man has a look of satisfaction on his face that no young man has ever known. It’s not because he has retired from the working world, no longer a slave to the clock. And it’s not because he knows he’s done an excellent job raising his young children into the respectful adults they are today. And it’s not because he knows the joy of interacting with his grandkids. It’s because his wife is no longer insane. He may have arthritis, braid-worthy hair in his ears, and a prostate the size of a grapefruit, but he’s happier now than he’s ever been. He has the security and comfort of knowing that, when he comes home, he’ll never again have to worry about being yelled at for parking his car in the garage, or having a plate thrown at him for opening the refrigerator and asking where the mayonnaise is. That, my male compadres, is why it’s known as the Golden Years.
Until then, however, we men must look elsewhere for advice on handling our loony lovers. The ostrich is an excellent place to start, head in the sand, don’t say anything, don’t look anywhere, just weather the storm. The rabbit is another good example, stay on your toes, always at the ready, and run at the first sign of any trouble. Also, I would recommend the koala bear, up in a tree, eating eucalyptus leaves, carrying your young in your marsupial pouch. This is all well and good, but I think I’ve figured out the perfect way to get through that hellish week. With this method, your woman will never get mad at you, in fact, if you follow this simple rule, she’ll be overwhelmingly grateful, and readily willing to let you watch the game, cook you some red meat, or try that thing you’ve begged and pleaded for in the bedroom. Trust me, gentlemen, this one impossibly easy guideline is all you’ll need to survive all the periods she can throw at you! All you need to . . . What’s that, honey? Ice cream and a back rub? Coming!