Men irritate the hell out of me sometimes – for instance, the times I hang out with men, and the conversation turns to injuries we have sustained, and after we run through the usual broken bones and concussions and gashes in foreheads, the men bring up the worst “rackings” they have ever received, and I attempt to participate in the conversation by commenting sympathetically, “Yeah, that sucks,” because even though I don’t have testicles, I used to ride my father’s bike as a kid, and the crossbar clashed with my pelvis more than once and it always hurt like hell, and one of the guys always responds dismissively, “You have no idea how much it hurts to get racked.” Guys love to act like surviving a shot to the nuts gives them P.O.W. status or something. Pardon me while I do NOT tune up the world’s smallest violin and do NOT deliver a heartfelt rendition of “My Heart Bleeds For You” – I don’t doubt that taking one in the goolies hurts, and I don’t doubt that guys feel like puking when it happens or that they have residual soreness or any of the other side effects they love to whine about. I don’t doubt at all that it sucks, and thus I say, “Yeah, that sucks.” But I have felt pukey and sore and bloated once a month, every month, for the last thirteen years, so men need to spare the women of the world their puling about their little goody bags getting squashed. I menstruate, chief, so don’t even try to tell me that I “have no idea,” okay?

Often, men don’t realize how good they have it. A man does not have to put his feet in the stirrups. A man does not shudder reflexively every time he hears the word “speculum.” A man doesn’t get periods, and thus a man does not have to worry about ruining white clothing, or doubling over with cramps on a morning when he has an important presentation. Nor does a man have to suffer accusations of PMS every time he loses his temper. And since a man doesn’t get periods, a man also doesn’t worry about missing periods; sure, if he has a girlfriend, he might worry if she misses one, but he does not have to go a drugstore in a different neighborhood, spend fifteen bucks on a pregnancy test, pee on the stupid stick, and pace the bathroom floor for the next five minutes while promising God that no, really, after this he won’t ever ask for anything ever again, really, he means it this time. And if the test comes out positive, a man doesn’t deal with the results in a direct physical way, because a man will not get pregnant. A man doesn’t have to visit a clinic and walk with his head down past the pro-life protesters in front of the building in order to take care of an unplanned pregnancy; a man can just walk away. Women don’t have that option – we can walk anywhere we want, but we can’t outrun our uteruses. And in the case of a planned pregnancy, women don’t have the option of skipping morning sickness and giant ankles and gaining forty pounds. Women can’t say, “Um, thanks, but I don’t really do the whole throwing-up-for-a-month thing, and if you don’t mind, I’d like to continue drinking beer. And smoking. Got a light?” Men don’t have to give birth. I haven’t gotten pregnant as of this writing, so I’ve never put up with any of these aggravations either, but every time someone with a penis bitches about having to don a necktie, I feel like shouting, “Well, if you’d rather not wear a tie, HOW ABOUT AN EMERGENCY C-SECTION?”

“Do I have to wear a tie?” These seven words never fail to set my teeth on edge. Listen up, Natural Man – if the woman in your life has put on a tight little lacy vest with thick curved wires in the front (also known as a “bra”) and shoehorned her lower body into a nylon sausage casing (according to scripture, “pantyhose”) and has just tottered past you on miniature pointy scaffolds (called “high heels” by anthropologists specializing in torture devices), then not only do you have to wear a tie, but you also have to like it. Men complain that they find neckties “constricting,” and expect our hearts to break right then and there. Constricting? I’ll show you constricting. Two words: Control. Top. A man cannot imagine stuffing a bolster pillow into a balloon of the type that clowns that use to make balloon animals at parties, but women (and trannies) don’t have to imagine. Some of us do it every day.

A man probably cannot imagine paying five bucks a pop for the balloons either. Women not only have to wear relatively uncomfortable underthings, but we have to shell out thirty bucks for a decent brassiere and several dollars a pair for stockings, at least. We can’t just buy one pair, either. We have to have dozens of the goddamn things. We have to have scarves, and purses, and matching shoes and belts, and earrings and bracelets and necklaces, and headbands and hair elastics and bobby pins, and hair-spray, and foundation and blush and mascara and eye-liner and eye-shadow and lipstick and lip gloss, and nail polish and emery boards and cuticle softener, and perfume, and those goofy razors that Gillette actually expects us to pay eighty cents more for because they did us the non-favor of making it pink and putting dippy-ass little flowers on the side. Men have to have deodorant, and a suit (on which they get free alterations and a whole passel of handy pockets, which women totally do not get). A woman makes seventy cents to a man’s dollar. Where does that other thirty cents go, exactly? Does it fund a mass mailing to the men of the world, reminding them to gripe about having to shave the little area right under their noses? Does it finance the “Showering In A Raincoat” Party, running for office on the platform that women should shoulder the responsibility for all forms of birth control, instead of all forms EXCEPT ONE? I could use that thirty cents, because eyebrow tweezers cost money.

Men don’t get eating disorders (unless they play for a wrestling team). Men don’t get date-raped. Men don’t get endometriosis, and when the OB nurse gets out that big nasty needle for the amnio, men can leave the room. I don’t blame men, or hate men, for these things – really, I don’t. I do, however, resent it deeply when men act like getting kicked in the balls, or wearing a tie, or turning their heads and coughing, makes them heroes. If anyone understands physical pain and discomfort, a woman does. If anyone would rather stay in sweatpants than get dressed up, a woman would. This doesn’t make us heroes either, but we don’t expect a Croix Du Guerre for walking around with external genitalia, so either start wearing a cup or shut the hell up.

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