There are abundant distinctions between men and women. I’ve known this since I was 11 and checked out a book on reproduction from the public library. Little did I know then that zoozies and tallywhackers were only the tip of the iceberg when it came to differences between the sexes.
Just take anger, for example. Well, intense anger. Loathing, actually, might be a better word. Directed at another. A specific, targeted other. When a man loathes another man, he likely thinks about delivering a good punch to the face, or even running the lowlife’s car off the road.
It’s cute how boys wage war like that.
When I carry venom for another woman, I absolutely rehearse the verbal evisceration I’m going to give the hussy the next time I see her; I may possibly make catty comments when my enemy is within earshot; and, I most certainly will employ my most effective glare at every opportunity. Lame ammunition, you say? I beg to differ. I’ve got a wicked tongue, and a withering gaze! Deadly! I am a sharpshooter with The Look!
That’s not what I *really* want to do, though. Nope. In my perfect fantasy, I shame that hag right off the dance floor.
Yes, you read it correctly. Ever since the dames of the Jets and Sharks faced off at the dance in the gym during West Side Story, and Sandy Olsson bested Cha Cha DiGregorio in the Hand Jive during Grease, women have dreamed about seeing our adversaries crushed by our superior dance moves. High heels clicking, skirts flaring, fingers snapping…. we envision ourselves as Dance Ninjas.
In my head, it’s typically to a classic dance number, something from Michael, his little sister Janet (Ms. Jackson, if you’re nasty), or even Black Eyed Peas. The object of my disgust will of course be gyrating awkwardly, unaware of my presence. Once THE right song comes on, I’ll make my way to the center of the room, and soon people will be standing around in a circle watching my amazing grace. Awed, if you will.
I should point out that during this fantasy, I’m not only as talented as any of the Fly Girls from In Living Color, but I’m also that amazing while flawlessly rocking 6 inch heels. With perfect hair. Oh, and dressed to the hilt in a form fitting size 8 ensemble. Hey, it’s my hallucination, right?
Anyway, after the crowd has been sufficiently mesmerized by my awesomeness, the object of my vitriolic gaze (yes, I’m going to glare too, just for affect) will slink away, knowing she has been publicly bested.
It’s not just me. All women, if they’re honest, will admit to this daydream. I’m sure they will. I can’t possibly be the only one. I’m normal, I swear it.
What I think I look like dancing.
What I really look like dancing.