I have this issue a lot that I sit down to write about something and then I realize:
- It should really stay off limits.
- It’s really not as funny/interesting/strange as I originally thought.
- I’ve done that topic to death in a certain other blog.
- Gosh, I sound like I bitch a lot. I mean, a lot, sister.
For example, for two years now, I’ve sat down at the keyboard to wax philosophical about my love of avocados and how I wonder if a black bean slash sweet potato cake would really be that good. Have I ever written more than that about either subject? No. No, I have not. That falls under number two. And I’m pretty sure I could make it fall under number four if I tried.
I try to keep a distance between really personal stuff and the keyboard, but there are some things I will talk about with impunity. Like female stuff. I mean, 49.76% of the population is women. We share common innards, you know? And it is always, ALWAYS, amazing to me how men will crumple and fall at the mention of any of the following: periods, the viscosity of said periods, childbirth, breast pumps, and the mechanics of diaphragm usage. I can sit and listen to a man talk about what my husband calls The Fickle Finger of Fate–the prostate exam–without flinching. Not that I really want to, but I can if I need to be polite. And you would be amazed at how often that’s happened. But the other day when I mentioned to him the severity of my cramps and how I thought they might be related to the chicken gizzards I appeared to be passing, he got all AAAAAHH! PLEASE MAKE IT STOP! OH, THE HUMANITY!!
Yeah, I know. He totally can’t handle it. I don’t mean this all in a sort of a Secret: Strong Enough for a Man, Made for a Woman way. Like one of those things that sounds good on the first listen, and then you realize is a total sexist generalization. I’m saying I’ve seen a male OB/GYN wilt at the mention of yeast infection symptoms. My husband once calmly came in from the yard, took off his boots, and asked in a normal voice for me to come help him with something. I looked over and he had a hatchet sticking out of his shin and blood soaking his jeans. I am not even joking. But if he even thinks someone has mentioned Cesarean section, he pukes. Which, just so you know, is why I don’t order a lot of Caesar salads.
Labor stories do actually seem to be abhorred by both men and women. One gentleman just told me that women, “like try to outdo each other with who suffered the most. We men would prefer they kindly stop, and join our stimulating discussion the merits of bermuda versus zoysia as a fairway grass.” And I must say that I agree with another female friend who says she can’t deal with delivery stories. Actually that’s not true. Labor I can handle, but when women start talking about feeling the fetus moving around, kicking, and whatnot, I get cold, cold chills. It’s the thought of something growing inside me. Something that can’t get out on its own. For almost a year. You remember that scene in Juno where she decides to have the baby when the girl tells her that the fetus has fingernails? Yeah, that’s where I can’t deal. Fingernails? Something inside me with fingernails? No way, dude. This is why I did not give birth. I draw the line with fingernails.
Now look, before you start telling me about the wonders of children and the joy of childbirth, and how I’m a terrible, horrible, disgusting person for talking bad about it, it won’t do any good. I’m impervious to such attacks. There’s a reason I’m a step-parent, okay?
You see? Boundaries. Blogging is all about maintaining boundaries.