The Raw Deal

The thing is, we women get it. Not in everything, thank goodness, but physically we were cut a raw deal. I know Eve tempted Adam with that darn apple (really Eve, was it that good? Just asking.) but ever since that fateful day, we have suffered painful childbirth, infuriating monthly cycles and the general annoyance that when it all stops and we hit menopause, it’s going to get a whole lot worse.

Why is it men get it so easy when it comes to sex, or more to the point, safe sex? At the most, absolute most, they shell out for condoms and wear one of the little suckers. Even then, if you really want to be on the safe side, the options are limitless, but sadly, they are all on you lady, scientists are yet to create a sperm killing pill for men. The one they take every day, without fail, that may make them feel a little insane at times, perhaps bloated oh and don’t forget the few pounds they’ll gain. Yep, they’re yet to create that, so for now, the 100% proof responsibility still lies with us.

And I’m not the only one to notice, in the last few weeks several things have happened, similarly related and yet totally separate. Men. Women. And reproduction. Or the lack of it.

Firstly I made a gynie appointment. Yup, it’s that time. I’m sitting in the cozy little office, laughing off a few questions about my fruitful, or not so fruitful sex life when he hits me with the options. All the while I’m thinking – holy shit, this guy doling out the choices on his fingers is about to have his head between my legs and his hands up there. Ew. Ew. Ew. Calm breathing came into play before I let myself hyperventilate. Five minutes later I’m stripped at the waist, lying on the table having small talk about my career while he cranks me open with a clamp and injects me in the unmentionables. Not exactly what I had planned for my day. As he’s busy slipping the alien inside me that will now eradicate all possibilities of ‘accidents’ and hopefully take away the dreaded monthly cycle (imagine – what a bonus!!) I can’t help think that the boy on the other side of this deal is getting off very, very lightly. Too lightly. So lightly that I infact think we are now on very uneven footing and I deserve the royal treatment for a significantly long time to make this procedure worth while. Said boy finds this typically entertaining but not quite so entertaining as the thought of another mans head between my legs.

Then there’s …..

My friend Amelia, who awoke realizing she was just months from her fortieth birthday and felt depressed. Not because she is turning forty, because the man she is dating is younger and wants kids. Uh oh. Neon signs had lit up when they stumbled into each other those few months ago, drunk and beer goggled, looking for a greasy take away and someone to split the taxi bill. They did more than split the bill over the next few weeks and now she’s head long in a relationship with a boy who wants a family. Not the two point three children she already has, but a full brood of five. Two of those being his. Had he not read any of the articles about older women and reproduction? Her eggs were shriveling like a parched house plant. Tired, weary and desperate to give up the ghost. Oh please don’t try to make them function. What is worse about all this, so, so much worse, is that he doesn’t exactly know her age. She hasn’t lied about it or anything so uncouth, instead she has managed, with superb skill I may add, to change the subject if it should ever arise. In. Any. Way. Shape. Or. Form.


Jess, who’s now dating a rather hot man in uniform, declared that condoms get removed half way into the act and since I was getting the coil, she really aught to join in, for the sake of her newly toned stomach and her vagina – it really doesn’t fancy another birth any time soon. What happens when she phones her GP for an appointment? She’s told it’s a six month waiting list and declares – ‘awh, to hell with that, I’ll be half way through a pregnancy by then!!’

Contraception, it’s a love hate relationship it seems.

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