I’ve been in the middle of a good muse concerning the differences between men and women.
After serious deliberation it’s clear to me, even though ours don’t hang, we have more balls than they do.
Oh hear me out…
Men, for instance, never leave, but women do. A man will stay in a marriage or even a bad relationship that’s gone numb, numbing himself with whatever it takes to stay, like a tree rooted in his front yard. He’ll have affairs, develop a drinking problem…anything so he doesn’t have to relinquish, or pack, one damned thing.
Women, on the other hand, will get up and go if they’re miserable enough, even if it’s not in their better interest.
I speak from experience. I’m not the sharpest tool in the box relationship wise. The words, be smart, never nest in my head.
Of course as I see it, it depends what you consider smart. Freedom has come to mean more to me than a Chanel clutch.
When I left my ex, I had women pleading with me to reconsider. Of course they were girls I had little regard for. They were old gold diggers who would have traded places with me in a second.
“Where are you gonna find another man with money at your age?”
“Don’t be stupid Susannah…have a coupla drinks…fuck-em fast then demand his Gold Card.”
“Since when do you have to care about somebody to stay with them?”
No I’m not kidding. The advice made The Rules seem like the Old Testament.
I refer to me leaving Thorn, and no, that’s not his real name, as Cinderella getting a divorce. I left an opulent lifestyle in order to reclaim my own existence that was nowhere to be found. That’s what you give up by the way when you pal around with someone whose life is lived so grandly. Of course as I tooled in and out of Prada and Burberry with a thousand shopping bags I hadn’t noticed this…
till one day, though my closet rivaled Jackie O’s designer wise, it stopped me cold.
You’ve heard the adage, money doesn’t buy happiness? Neither do trips to Italy or money bulging from your pocket if you wake up each morning in tears. Take it from me, when room service doesn’t help, you know you’re in trouble.
My misery was five-fold.
Now a man with a wealthy woman would have somehow worked it out for himself. He never would have left empty-handed. I didn’t even take half my clothes. When he was at work I shoved what I could in two paper bags and jumped in a cab.
Camille and I hadn’t been as close then as we are now so I didn’t have her to coach me. Just the greedy hens of the Upper East Side who were all set to make a play for the man I was so lavishly leaving.
Great…you can hold his head when he throws up. Be careful not to trip on all those empty wine bottles and when he calls you by the wrong name, don’t take it too personally…he tends to forget what decade he’s in.
Why is quality of life so underrated? Don’t get me wrong, I hate being poor which I am presently thanks to medical bills that have stolen every dime I’ve earned. Going to Starbucks for a Tall in a Grande cup every morning is my greatest extravagance. Cinderella is cleaning the cinders alright…but at least for a few minutes a day she has peace she can honestly recognize.
I’m not waiting for the next wine glass to break, as it were.
I think women are the stronger sex having nothing to do with childbearing. I think it’s more that we take ourselves and lives as gifts worth fighting for.
I rarely wear those expensive clothes anymore. I’m happiest in jeans, an L.L. Bean turtleneck, Chuck Taylors and an old Barbour jacket I bought myself.
Men can’t always say they know who they truly are…but women can…
more often than not.