Open letter to Mother Nature: Why being a woman can sometimes be a real pain in the arse
8 March is International Women's Day. In honour of this and my abdominal cramps yesterday, it's high time for a slightly aggressive letter to Mother Nature.
Being a woman can sometimes be pretty rocking. But not when you're curled up in a fetal position with a bed bottle and an empty packet of Dafalgan in your hand, crying yourself to sleep. The following letter was written after one such night.
Dear Mother Nature
Help me understand. Why exactly does being a woman have to be so exhausting, complicated and painful? I have a massive need for clarification. In the appendix you will find a "list of shortcomings" I have compiled as well as suggestions for correcting the construct of woman.
I would be very pleased to receive your explanations on the individual points of criticism.
Sweetest regards
Natalie
PS: F*** off!
Attachment: "List of defects"
Every moon again: the red pain
Admit it, you could have solved the monthly bloodbath smarter, couldn't you? If something has to "find its way out of me" for a week, why not let it be something valuable? Liquid platinum, for example. At least you could have evened out the gender pay gap a bit. But that's another issue. Instead, I keep trying to stop the unstoppable with overpriced cotton wool products. And let's not forget the countless painkillers that have been dropped in the miserable battle against my abdominal cramps. There must be around 368 by now - but who's counting? Will you pay for them? I accept cash or credit card.
Why is contraception often only women's business?
There are plenty of contraceptive methods. But you've probably noticed that pretty much all of them, with the exception of the condom, are used by women. And I'd like to emphasise that research into hormonal contraception for men was discontinued because the desired results simply wouldn't materialise. So may I ask why you created our uterus to be so manipulable, while the man's sperm factory is seemingly untouchable? Not cool. Not cool at all. I would also like to point out that the pill has given me mood swings whose ups and downs not even the "Silver Star" at Europapark can keep up with. And guess what happened when I capitulated and had a non-hormonal contraceptive inserted? I just doubled over in pain! Yes, that's right: just passed out. I woke up in the next room with my legs up and a window open. Next time, please just put a button above your belly button to switch fertility on and off. Merci!
Can someone remove the batteries from the biological clock?
Now for a very tricky point. Why does a woman's biological clock tick louder and louder from the age of 25 and before I know it, I'm banging head first into a sign at the crossroads of my life that reads: career or child? I'm already struggling to decide between ketchup and mayo at the hot dog stand. So while a woman's ability to conceive slowly declines from the age of 25, a man's ability to conceive only gradually and comfortably sets in from the age of 40. What's the rush, right? Take the following accusation personally, because I do too: how can it be that a man can still be a father at the age of 96 while I, at my young age, am already having to think frantically about my potential future as a parent? Please update both genders here and finally bring them up to the same level.
Please reconsider: the birth thing
In my eyes, pregnancy and childbirth are the culmination of the imbalance between men and women. I recognise that this miracle can certainly be seen as a privilege. But wouldn't it be fairer to take turns with the lords of your creation from time to time and let them share in the nausea, shortness of breath, labour pains, ravenous hunger attacks, tiredness, frequent urge to urinate, perineal tears, incontinence, inflamed nipples and swollen feet? Just an idea.
As a massive Disney fan, I see the world through rose-tinted glasses. I worship series from the 90s and consider mermaids a religion. When I’m not dancing in glitter rain, I’m either hanging out at pyjama parties or sitting at my make-up table. P.S. I love you, bacon, garlic and onions.
This is a subjective opinion of the editorial team. It doesn't necessarily reflect the position of the company.
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