Men. You Can’t Live with Them.

I have a very good friend who has also been going through a somewhat messy and unwanted divorce. It has been a wonderful friendship because he is male and I am not. This gives both of us very useful access into the minds of the opposite sex. Or as we alternatively know them –  “Prey” and “the Unnecessary Evil”. He also affords me a much needed, ongoing ego boost by unwittingly revealing the gaping chasms between male and female morality. In other words, he completely reinforces any notion that I may have that Men are Pigs. On the downside, he has a lot more fun than me.


Yesterday he asked me if I knew of a good baby sitter who would be available at short notice. I immediately thought of my beloved niece who is at that awkward after-school-but-not-really-working-yet-still-trying-to-find-myself-phase. In other words she would do pretty much anything legal for a couple of bucks. I had a moments reticence when he told me why he needed a babysitter – to take a date 15 years his junior to a nightclub. The same date, might I add, that had resulted in him arriving at my 40th birthday party three hours late the previous week, inducing an SMS rant that left him afraid to approach me when he finally did arrive (I had imbibed a fair amount of inhibition-reducing substances by then). But I chalked it down to a flare-up of his mid-life crisis, and patronisingly believed that he would be home, passed out from exhaustion, by 11 o’clock that night.


I awoke this morning to an SMS from my niece’s mother that stopped just short of accusing me of selling her daughter into a slave-trading racket. I have compassion for her position – it was after all four o’clock in the morning when she wrote it, and she had just pulled a BB Gun on the security guard who wouldn’t let her into the boomed off area in which my friend’s house was safely ensconced. As was her exhausted daughter. Apparently my friend has more staying power than I realised.


And while this unfortunate series of events is somewhat unusual, the world view that generated them is not. I have seen a distinct pattern amongst the divorced men I know (granted it is only three of them, Cheating Husband included) to jump back into the ‘saddle’, so to speak. No long, tortuous months of boring introspection for them. No overwhelming sense of physical vulnerability. No period of abstinence to mourn or grieve. Their stages of loss seem to read something like Anger, Much Better Now, I’m Ready for Sex.


If I sound anything but envious, I am not. Its all very well occupying the high moral ground, but it gets pretty boring with just woman up here. I want to be down below, with the men and the feminist sell-outs, drinking and bonking my way to a happy recovery. If I could just get a frontal lobotomy and lose 40 IQ points.


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