She says:
If you have a sense of humour, you’re one of the guys.
If you don’t fall into a dead faint when you see a rat, you’re one of the guys.
If you like whooping it up on Saturday night with ‘the gang’, you’re one of the guys.
What’s with this ‘one of the guys’ nonsense anyway? It makes you wonder whether every man’s idea of the perfect girl involves visions in frilly pink who smile demurely — and that too only when there’s an exciting breakthrough, like Lakme coming up with a new lipstick colour — about three times a day. (The rest of the time, they are probably expected to look wide-eyed and virtuous). Girls who swoon delicately every time a frog croaks. Whose idea of a wild party involves Earl Grey tea and cucumber sandwiches spread with low fat butter.
I don’t know whether this is good news or bad, but sorry guys, women like this just don’t exist. And perhaps they never did. I, for one, can’t think of a single woman who’s the embodiment of all those dreadfully feminine ‘virtues’ that all of us are supposed to possess.
Because none of the women I know bake cakes and waft on a haze of vanilla all day. They just pick up their snazzy cell phones and order them.
None of them sit picturesquely and bat their eyelashes adoringly at the men, called in to wrestle with plumbing/ laptops/ cars. When they need to get something fixed, they either call a plumber/ geek friend/ mechanic, or pull out manuals and fix it themselves.
And none of them are “gentle, compassionate, introverted, submissive and yielding” — the terms commonly used to describe feminity. Honestly, think of the women you know, and try matching them with all those adjectives. (After you stop laughing, maybe you could drink a glass of water to cure your hiccups before you return to this column.)
The bottom line is, women, like men, are are a bunch of very different people. They don’t have a pack of similar virtues, and thank goodness for that. After all, where would you be without your women friends who slap you on the back and tell you not to be a wuss when you whine, and then tell you how to fix your ipod, and your life.
He says:
Yes, the lady wins this one. Hands down.
Of course she has a sense of humour to write whatever she did.
Because, the joke’s really working.
The floor’s sparkling clean. I’m just rolled on it laughing.
A friend of mine suggested a simple test: Make a list of different people who make you laugh. Oh, of course, there are so many women who do that.
But the point is, they don’t intend to. Which is why you laugh.
Call any girl a clown and she’ll frown.
Because, my friends, most women consider the word clown derogatory.
Tell a man that and he’s sure to laugh and say: “Guess what? You’re funny too.”
She’s also right when she says women don’t faint when they see rats. They just become one of them. Jumpy, hiding for cover, lest the frightful monster gobbles them up. Men consider it perfectly natural for rats to co-habit their eco-system and do remember that they are right at the top of the food chain.
And what’s a girl gang? Ooooh, I’m really scared now. Because, the girls are going to drink their guts out and fall over me on a Saturday night. Ha ha!
So what is this “one of the guys” thing men talk about?
Come on, you need to be among the guys to do that.
I could write a check-list of what we dream, lust and fantasise about all day and all night. But I just heard that the list would not be printable. Oh damn!
Men have simple tastes, they are colour blind, so they wouldn’t even notice if it’s a blue lipstick or a black one she’s wearing. So whoever said they like their ladies to be dainty in pink.
Men have basic instincts, let’s just say they are very very basic.
They can laugh at themselves, call themselves clowns, lech at every other woman and perfectly not feel guilty, catch a rat by its tail, get pissed drunk on a saturday night, sport a Salman Khan wardrobe every single day, hit on women shamelessly, make them laugh and be laughed at.
Now lady, if you can do this, you’re one of the guys too. Else, just snigger dismissively, saying: “Boys!”
MADRAS INK. 