It’s Raining Men. No. It’s Men Raining.
(My last post for heternormative week. I’m sure you are relieved.)
I don’t understand men.
Growing up, my mother and my sisters were easy. They were exactly like me. They looked like me; they dressed like me; they thought like me.
My father and my brother were smart and loving and funny, and I enjoyed having them around. But in my blissful immature girly egocentricity, I kind of thought that they were just like us females too. I guess I wasn’t paying attention.
I didn’t marry until I was forty. Before that I did a lot of superficial dating. I never got to really know a man until I met my husband. And now I have found that men are just as much a mystery as when they actually were a mystery. After twenty years of marriage, I can predict what he’s going to do or say with amazing accuracy. I just still don’t know WHY.
I love my husband with my whole heart. But I just don’t get my whole mind too involved, because I am afraid it will explode.
But even though I try not to, there are some mysteries about men that I can’t help but wonder about.
Why do men spit so much?
Does testosterone stimulate overproduction of saliva? I don’t think so. I don’t see men drooling like overheated dogs (and I won’t press that analogy).
I also know (through some good kissing) that man spit tastes pretty much like my own lady spit, so it’s not that men are constantly spitting because their saliva tastes so bad.
Is it something about male throatal anatomy? Does a big adam’s apple prevent stuff from going down?
I think I have narrowed it down to something outdoors. After all, when men leave the house, it seems the first thing that happens is a big phlegmball.
At first I thought that just looking at the outdoors provokes spit, based on watching guys roll down the car window to hock one out. But I had to discard that theory. They can sit opposite the dining room window on Thanksgiving and refrain from spitting out of it.
So what is it?
And why so proud?
If a women needs to clear her throat, she’ll cough ever so discreetly (and silently) into a tissue. But just let a camera pan over to a baseball player and he’ll shoot out a big one for eight million fans. (And don’t tell me that it’s the chewing tobacco. Men don’t spit because of chewing tobacco. They chew tobacco so they can spit.)
And excuse me, James Cameron, but it’s obvious that you didn’t get a woman’s opinion when you wrote “Titanic”. No matter how badly Rose wanted to bust out of her corset and have a fling, I can guarantee that her idea of a fling didn’t include flinging a loogie over the side of a boat.
So man spit…what is it?
Is it anatomy, fresh air, inordinate pride in one’s bodily fluids?
What is it?
Whatever it is . . . CUT IT OUT!