MANTALK: If I was a girl…

The other day I was sipping this little storm in a tea cup with this woman, and we all know that when you are winning an argument against a woman she will suddenly change the rules and move the goalposts. In true form, the one I was chatting with said, “You don’t know how hard it is to be a girl!” The argument died immediately because what do you say to that? I certainly don’t know the first thing about being a girl. And thus she won.

Later on I wondered to myself what kind of a woman I would be if I was born one. Would I have big feet? That would be dreadful because I’m certain I would only meet really annoying men with small feet. And there is nothing like an annoying man with small feet, I would imagine. Oh and these men with small feet? They’d also be prematurely balding, some right in the middle of their heads like me. They’d annoy the hell out of me. They’d come to my house and put their small, annoying feet on my coffee table and say stupid things like, “Do you have fresh juice in the fridge? Not from the box.” They’d probably be accountants, or quantity surveyors. Or something lacklustre like that. Or they’d work as consultants. Oh, I suspect my life would be full of those consultant types; men who dress sharp and are completely allergic to bills. 

I would probably be those girls who wear tons of bangles on their wrists and when I speak with my hands I would sound and look like an eccentric palm reader. Naturally, I would be terrible at reverse parking. I see myself in an empty basement parking, my tongue peeking out of the corner of my mouth, spending half my year there, trying to park my car.

I know I would never wear a camisole. That is the one thing I’m sure of. Never. I would respect myself enough not to wear a camisole, especially a black one with lacy edges. My word, if I wore camisoles then I would deserve to meet only men with small feet.

I WOULD WEAR A WEAVE

I strongly suspect that with all the noise I keep making about weaves, I would wear a weave because even now, it’s not like I have this lovely head of hair to speak of. Anyway, I pray to God that they would not be those weaves that seem to change colour in the sun. Don’t pretend that you don’t know what I’m talking about; there are those women who turn up in a black weave when you meet them inside a room but when you walk them out of the building and stand out in the sun to say goodbye, their weaves suddenly look like they are blueish. A weave that changes colour like the ocean.

I’d have a lovely signature. I’d sign things – cheques, non-disclosure forms – and people would marvel at my wonderful signature.

I’d hate the coil as a contraceptive and the injectable would give me a double chin. I’d have very irregular periods, which isn’t good if you hate the coil and have a double chin. But when they are around (my periods, not chin) I’d be a complete jackass. I’d walk with my nose twisted, looking for someone to brawl with. At work they would know when I’m in that state because apart from having words with virtually everybody on our floor, including Nyako, our born again tea girl, I would have this ugly pimple right in the middle of my forehead.

I suspect I would be kind and compassionate and love children and cats. I’d be the type who watches Nat Geo Wild until midnight and knows the mating cycle of snow leopards. Of course I’d be intelligent and a joy to be around (when I’m not cramping). I’d have that big belly laugh that colours everything around me.

Also, I would never bother with yoga or anything that involves mats and sweats. I don’t know what size I would be, but I know I wouldn’t be those skinny girls who walk around with bottles of water and slices of cucumber in them. In fact, I wouldn’t even be friends with that type of girl. They’d annoy the hell out of me. 

You’d imagine that at 32 years I’d know better, but I’d meet and fall in love with this married man and spend a few years trying to leave him and his juju concentrate. He’d keep telling me he’s leaving his wife and that they are sleeping in separate bedrooms, and I would swallow that up like water. My life would be like a bad version of a Mills and Boon novel. All my girlfriends would tell me, “Imagine this guy is never leaving his wife, sweetie,” but would I listen? Not until one day two years later when I’d come across pictures his wife posted of their newborn daughter Amina on her Facebook. (Of course I would be stalking her online.) That evening I would stand over him in the living room while he drank my fresh juice which is not from a box and ask him casually how many kilogrammes Amina is. He would probably look up at me, perplexed, like I just turned into a talking frog and I would probably tell him, “Please get your small feet off my coffee table.” And that would be the end of him.

So, what was I saying about that storm in a teacup?