In Which I Profess to Being Glad I'm Not a Woman

Throughout my life, I have frequently thought about how happy I am that I'm not a woman. The crux of this thinking has basically always centered around three main points: no period, no pregnancy, no menopause. No aspect of any of these seems remotely appealing of beneficial. As I've grown older and more mature, I included the treatment of women to these reasons, be they lower wages (ironic, as Andrea is the breadwinner in our family) or the incessant cat-calling of creepy guys. Basically, being male, middle-class, and white is a pretty sweet deal.

Sure, there have been aspects of female living I've been intrigued by. I was always jealous that they had lower standards in the Presidential Fitness Club. When springtime rolls around, I feel a tinge of jealousy that women get to wear sundresses, which look like the most comfortable looking of clothing ever designed. I think it would be interesting to feel what a female orgasm is like (of course, I would hardly need to be female for long to do that). There may be a few more things, but those are the big ones.

Now that I have a baby, my list of reasons I'm glad to be a guy can grow in a way I never imagined before: breastfeeding. The demands on Andrea are completely ridiculous and annoying (for her. It's all pretty easy on me). Basically, she has to stop everything to make sure the boy feeds and at whatever time he desires. There's very little I can do to help at this point (around week three, we'll start bottle training him), so the minute he starts making faces like he's searching for a teat to suck, I have to take him to mom. That alone would drive me crazy. Then there's the other stuff that goes along with it, like leaking through clothes or on the bed and having sore boobs and pumping. It all looks fairly miserable.

So, yes, I'm glad I'm not a woman.