God must be a man

I read an article advocating God to be a woman, the evidence given wasn’t quite convincing as I’d have liked. Traditionally, God has been depicted as a man — in movies, books, and in the bible — but some fierce feminists have tried to convince us that he must be a she. I have now decided he is definitely a he — the proof is in the woman.

Recently my friend visited her GP because her body was ‘misbehaving’. After a thorough MOT, she was told ‘there was nothing to worry about’ (thank God?), ‘but because of her age (oh here we go!), her body was expected to misbehave.

The clock

Her biological clock was now winding down, and the winding down comes with its demons. When she told me the story, I realised most of us (my age mates or slightly older mates) have in recent years received similar news. We are either peri-menopausal or on menopause.

As women, we know this would eventually happen, but no amount of reading or drinking herbal teas would prepare you for the actual event. I spoke to a few women who were experiencing the ‘change’ and it got me thinking: For a Supreme Being to create a woman, as delicate as she is and all that crap, that Supreme Being must/has to be a man. I’m not trivialising the journey (changes) or minimising the joys that we experience as women but …. I mean why….think about the clock.

Consider the woman as a several storeys building.

At ground level (0–10), life is cool. Most girls don’t even know they are girls.

But as you exit ground level to level one, things start sprouting out of you with such force and pain that the area is hardly ever washed. God forbid the area connects with an elbow or a hard object. As far as ‘on-the-spot statistics are made’ I’ll go ahead and make one, “…at least 9 out of 10 tweenage girls have had their buds whacked with a hard object, most likely by a boy!”

At level one, just when the growing moulds ease on the pain, other stuff starts coming out of you on a monthly basis. At first, (irrespective of how many books you’ve read or how many talks your aunties or older sisters gave), you are convinced you are definitely going to die. I mean who bleeds for 5 days and doesn’t die?

You survive that and the hard realisation hits… this is a monthly business that will happen for the next several levels and in most cases up to level 6 for the unfortunate few. During these several decades, the only time auntie flo or wanjiru — (whatever your euphemism) — doesn’t visit you are either pregnant, giving birth or breastfeeding. And none of these events is a walk in the park; it’s so traumatic for some that they go mad. Sometimes I wonder how it’s possible there are so many people in the world.

Now you’ve survived to 4–5–6 levels. Congratulations you’ve raised people, you’ve toiled and survived and now you think you can relax as you enter old age with dignity and pride. Then bang! You are on level menopause and your body is seriously misbehaving, I mean what the hell!

So after spending on average 2,600–5,250 days and over £2,000 feeding the red devil (auntie flo or wanjiru — different cultures have different names), you would be forgiven for thinking that she’d make a quiet exit. But, oh no, instead she swaps place with the mother of all nature aka menopause.

Menopause brings her whole clan and announces her arrival like they announced dinner on the Titanic! From now on you are going to experience heat waves from within your body as hot as solar flares. You will sweat profusely at night. You will have severe mood swings worse than bipolar. You may suffer from adult acne or skin dryness that no amount of olive oil will quench. You will most likely gain super weight in all the wrong places.

And just so you know, these episodes have no schedule, they could attack at any given time and place. They don’t give a flying rat’s ass what the weather looks or feels like, or if you are in the middle of giving a presentation to the board. It can happen in the middle of a snowstorm, or on that day when temperatures in London are in the high 30s and not a whiff of wind. In mid-winter, when your colleagues are wrapped up in heavy jackets, scarfs, woolly hats and gloves and spend a good ten minutes standing by the radiator before sitting at their desks, you waddle in sporting a flimsy sleeveless top and open shoes sweating profusely, your colleagues know you did not run from your house to the office, but you are going through the change.

Your thunder face tells them for their own safety they should not offer advice on HRTs or any advice for that matter: they should never look in your general direction and should steer clear of your path for the foreseeable future: your resting bitch face is exactly what it says: any and all crimes committed at this testing time will be fiercely contested.

Western medicine has tried to make this transition easier by introducing artificial hormones. I’ve heard of people women who started taking them at 50 through to forever because if you dare stop, it doesn’t matter how old you are, the process will kick start again.

And then it’s finally over at say level 7–8–9 — no wanjiru, no hot flushes, no mood swings or lack of libido — you are now on the top level, the penthouse, you think you can finally live and start enjoying your golden years, think again. Because, to your horror, you start turning into a man! Forget the pre-period moustache, oh no, it’s the beard, the sideburns and their relatives!!

So tell me again why God could be a woman?

Men on the other hand….. Actually, let’s not go there!