If I Were a Girl

"Don't think so much" is advice I hear frequently.

It's always unsolicited. I've never been in conversation with someone, friend, family-member, coworker, supervisor, car wash attendant, postal official, etc and, in the course of said conversation asked, "Hey, do you think I think too much?"

I've never asked that. And yet, I'm often told, "Don't think so much." Which is kind of funny because, most of the time, I feel like I make pretty serious decisions without spending more than three minutes deliberating the consequences. Yet, popular opinion, which is never wrong-- just like Wikipedia-- seems to firmly believe that I think too much.

Today, I think I probably spent too much time thinking about what I would be like if I were a girl. Don't worry-- I'm not going in for a slit-job, but I was thinking about it. I don't know how or when it started. Maybe this morning while I was peeing.

See, oftentimes, I pee sitting down-- especially for the first pee of the day. Why? The reasons are severalfold. This interests you, right?

1.) When I first wake up and stumble to the bathroom, I am too tired/lazy to lift up the seat.

2.) If I pee standing up with the seat down, I'm very likely to spray. This is due to the occurance of "urethral split" which happens to gentlemen, causing pee to stream in the correct direction (i.e., into the bowl) and a totally different stream to go in any number of incorrect directions (i.e., my pajama bottoms, the ceiling, my right foot and so on). The most common victim of the urethral split is invariably the toilet seat, which I then have to spend the next five minutes cleaning up-- very hard to do without my glasses, which I never put on before rising out of bed to take the inaugural pee. If you're having trouble visualizing what a urethral split is like, it's like your dick having projectile lazy eye.

3.) Again, because I don't put my glasses on first thing when I wake up, it's very difficult for me to visualize exactly where this stream is going, even if it is a singular stream, unimpeded (haha-- that's funny) by a urethral split.

4.) Sometimes, I'm just too goddamn lazy to stand up. Doesn't that say a lot about yours truly?

So, this feminine way of thinking might very well have started in the bathroom, where all of my great thoughts begin, and usually end.

A side-note: you know what's interesting? If you Google the word "feminine," Google suggests that you might be searching for, in the following order:

feminine mystique

feminine tattoos

feminine boutique west chester

feminine odor

feminine itching

feminine rhyme

feminine hygiene

feminie itch

feminine hygiene products

and, last, but not least,

feminine wiles

I, of course, would have thought that "itch" would have been number one on the list of suggestions, but I guess Google Search doesn't work in quite the same manner as does my lurid, problematic brain. This is probably a good thing.

Seeing this list, though, got me wondering even more about being a female. If I were a female, would I have so-called "feminine mystique?" Probably not. When I picture women in my head who may very well have feminine mystique, I think of sleek, slick ladies with endless legs gliding through the streets of metropolitania in flowing, suggestive sundresses, looking coyly over their right shoulders and throwing a coquettish wink, their mouths everso slightly agape.

If I were a girl and I tried that, I would probably catch my shoe in a manhole cover, trip, shatter my elbow, and end up with a fire hydrant up my vag.

This most likely would mean that "feminine wiles" would be out of my league, too. I would probably have about as much feminine wiles as Peter Sellers in a wig and push-up bra.

One thing I would most likely have is feminine itch. I say that not to be gross, but because I'm regrettably suceptible to fungus and stuff. You should see my toenails. They look like gorgonzola crumbles.

If I Were a Girl:

* I would probably have small breasts.

I would obsess over this, decry God's unfairness and listen to Deirdre Flint's song "The Boob Fairy" every single day in my car, probably while hot tears would flow down my cheeks. I wouldn't wear push-up bras, not because they're deceptive, but because they're expensive.

* I would have a great fucking body.

Assuming my current proportions would carry over, more or less, to femaledom, I would probably be pretty smokin', bodywise. 6'0" and 136 pounds? Yummy! My legs are svelte, firm, bronze, go on for miles and, shaven, would probably be enviable by most runway sluts. My face, though, would still be totally Jewish with a nose the size of an airplane hangar, and may only qualify for hook-ups with Yeshiva students, stooped-over, elderly Kosher butchers, and balding, sack-gutted Brandeis University grads living in their parent's basements.

* I wouldn't wear make-up.

I've always disliked it when girls wear make-up, especially girls my own age. I see no reason why women in their twenties with taut, firm, naturally beautiful skin feel the need to cake it up with foul-smelling emolients and expensive garbage that does more damage than benefit. I'm sure I'm going to get a lot of catty comments about this, but I don't care, because...

* I would be called a "bitch." A lot.

What's snarky and funny when you're a guy automatically turns bitchy when you're a girl. Is it fair? No. But neither is the fact that, sometimes, I pee on the ceiling.

* I would have facial hair issues.

Being half-Israeli, and having a sister who, in high school, constantly Nair'd her upper lip, I know that I would have to do battle with an aggressively burgeoning 'stache. Still-- I'd have those runway legs.

* I would probably crack up a lot during sex.

The idea of some hulking moron on top of me, puffing away like Thomas the Train, having absolutely no interest in the location and/or function of my clitoris, smashing his pelvis into mine and thinking that this is giving me pleasure, while rolling his eyes around in his head and trying to think about baseball would probably make someone like me laugh in his face. I'd probably fart a lot during sex, too. And then I'd never stop laughing.

* I would be a blogger.

Well, duh.

* I would have been an English major.

Isn't it a law that every introspective, sensitive, awkward-looking, mildly-talented female in America has to become an English major?

And then a blogger?

I want to follow the law.

* I would deliberately walk past construction sites and firehouses in a tank-top and shorts on warm summer days to see if I would get sexually harrassed.

If I didn't, I would go home and cry.

If I did, I would scream, "THAT'S SEXUAL HARRASSMENT, YOU DICKLESS MOTHERFUCKERS!"

Of course, one thing is for absolute certain: if I were a girl, I would absolutely, definitely think too much.