NOT FOR MARRIED PEOPLE!!
One fine Monday evening I came home after a particularly annoying work day, laden with G-d knows how many heavy grocery bags. After this I proceed to do the usual "female" work: I cooked, cleaned the fridge, did a mountain of dishes, and straightened out the kitchen. All in all, I almost missed the Tonight Show with all this homegrown entertainment.
And in the midst of all this amusement, my brain began to wonder, and funny thoughts started creeping into it. Why, precisely, do I want to get married? Why do I waste my precious time going out with losers, chip skates, and obnoxious morons? Why do I humiliate myself over and over again (despite the repeated promises to self to cease and desist) with all those so-called matchmakers? Because this was a sample of the bliss that would be awaiting me immediately after Sheva Brachot (most of it before, come to think of it).
An overgrown baby who would moan and groan if he gets a cold (slight or otherwise), and moan and groan even more if I would get a full blown flu (not from taking care of me, mind you; just from the removal of the comforts due to him). His family would be nasty to me; I would be expected to be nice to them at all times; he would be nasty to my family whenever he is in a snit; my family and I would be expected to just swallow it and exercise diplomacy at all times. There would be constant complains about my housekeeping abilities, my cooking abilities, absence of home cooked meals, and my general (very lacking) time management (even if both of us work the same amount of time). There would be constant suggestions concerning my wardrobe and hair covering; and, believe me, one area where I am very tolerant of my fellow humans is their wardrobes. I would still be doing all the housework (very thanklessly); he would expect a hit parade if he washed his coffee mug. If he is in a bad mood, I would be expected to be understanding and supportive; if I am in a bad mood, I am a quarrelsome, bad tempered witch. I won't be able to spend time with my friends without him racking some kind of huge bonus; he would be able to just go with his friends at a whim. If he made a decision, he would just act on it; if I made a decision, I would have to employ major stratagems so wonderfully portrayed in "My Fat Greek Wedding".
Basically, men go through two stages of development: maturing and aging. In the process, somebody always have to stroke their monumental egos, always confirming their ideas of their superior mental powers and superior understanding of the world. Gloria Steinem and her coven can do any number of pushy, mean, and idiotic things; at the end of the day, it is still very much a men's world, and women come out on the losing end no matter what. And, the saddest of all, all those observations and conclusions did not come to me from books; they came from years of observing my married friends, relatives, and sundry acquaintances.
Jay Leno's "Headlines" calmed me down somehow; afterwards, I devised an intervention plan. When my sis finally gets her humongous professional portrait of The Fluffy Heads, I would ask for another one for my kitchen as a good reminder that such results are worth dealing with man's idiosyncrasies; I should also hint to people not to fight in front of idealistic and impressionable friends. And, most importantly, I shall revisit Hayden Rothwell.