The species called women

I confess I am not a man hater. I surely am not; and I have references to prove that. But, I am jealous of men.  I surely am.

Of the many things for which I'm jealous of men ( lack of fear of cellulite, capacity for alcohol, ability to travel anywhere anyhow, guaranteed orgasms, license for immaturity, capacity to burp anywhere and so on) the one that gets my goat vote is the way they handle their friendships. 

It doesn’t take much for two guys to be friends. A beer, a shared passion for a game or loyalty to a particular team, similar music tastes, whatever. For men, a friend could be the guy they drink with, smoke with, bitch about women with, watch a game with, play a game with, do lame-ass shit with, and even borrow shit from.  

Piggy once told me while returning from I-Rock one evening, her guy friend had stopped a random stranger smoking a joint and asked for a drag. And eventually got one. With the directions on where he could score good stuff.

That has never happened to women. And would never happen.

For a woman, a friend is someone you bonded with. Someone with whom you’ve shared your life’s secrets and who shared hers with you. This is true of everyone from her shopping buddy to the woman she calls in the middle of the night to ask about pregnancy tests. For a woman, a friend is a heavy serious shit. Not that it’s not for a man. But with women, its super serious. Dude, you got to accept it. And literally so, because sometimes (read: most of the times) a woman’s best friend and cut throat enemy are the same person. She will never accept it poignantly.

When a guy screws his friend over, they get into old fashioned fist-fight, or sword fight, beat the crap out of each other till someone says it’s over and then they shake hands and go back to being friends. Just friends.

This cannot happen to women either.

When a woman screws her friend over, there begins a veru complex and dynamic game of revenge and consequences, where seemingly just desserts are served back and forth, all under a cultivated veneer ‘everything-is-fine’.

A woman, like an elephant, never forgets and never forgives. We expect the men to screw us over in the first place. Yes, we always know before they actually plan to stab us. At least the realists amongst us accepts it quite well. Others, just know it. So when it happens, we shrug, cry a little or more, indulge in anything chocolate, retail therapy and move on. 

But to be screwed over by someone with a uterus? God forbid, if you think hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, you obviously have not met one who has been crapped by her girlfriend.

The simple reason for this that men don’t get and women don’t admit is that for women, for us, every other woman is a competition. Any woman who is prettier, smarter, thinner, more accomplished, a better cook, more looked at, more listened to, faster, has pretty shoes, a better multi-tasker, is just that. Competition.  Any good MBA will tell you, you never make friends with the rival. But it’s the femme-titude, we never listen.

Which is how there came to be born that unique, mutant, obnoxious species of female friend- a frenemy. A woman we have fun hanging out with, but with whom there’s always an unconscious competition. We love shopping with her, we hate her living guts. We love getting a drink with her, and secretly wish she’d throw up on her new Dior dress. Its psychotic, unbelievably perverse and perfectly normal kind of friendship for most women.

A woman will laugh hours with her frenemy,  go home and then decide what to wear  the next time they meet so that she looks hotter, thinner, richer that the other woman.

This will never happen to men. Never. They are retards who love simple solutions to life, unlike their psychoanalytic counterparts.