Under The Wagon

A former employer once described me to a new employee. “Nikki (her name was Nikki), you know how you’re kind of a ‘guy’s gal?’ How you get along really well with all the boys, watch sports, drink beer, etc?” “Yes,” said Nikki, wondering where this was going, I’m sure.

“Well Karla IS a guy.”

This was apparently a reference to my affinity for porn, booze and casual sex (and bragging about same), and my pathological avoidance of such womanly pursuits as commitment, healthy relationships and, oh I don’t know, knitting or some shit.

That being said, last week I totally acted like a girl. Twice.

The first incident, I’m not too ashamed of. I got a pedicure. And while quite a few of my more “metrosexual” guy friends are getting them nowadays, it’s still a pretty girly endeavor…But few things beat sitting in a massaging chair while a tiny Korean woman rubs your feet for an hour. It’s incredible. And your feet look nice.

But the pedicure apparently opened the floodgates on some estrogen pathway that overrode any logical or self-respecting decisions on my part.

I wrote an email. To a guy. Explaining how I felt.

A long email. Describing not only my own feelings, but my interpretation of possible feelings he might be experiencing.

The exact situation and history between myself and the unfortunate recipient of this emotional outpouring is unimportant. The important thing is:

Jesus-H.-Christ-on-a-three-legged-donkey, why the fuck did I write about my feelings?

My friends are all guys. I’ve sympathized with them repeatedly about the foolishness of the female gender and their damned emotions. Many a time I’ve sat at the bar beside some morose brother in arms, nodding my head knowingly over a cold can of Schlitz, pondering the inscrutable female mind. “Yeah dude, I don’t know why she keeps asking you ‘what are you thinking?’ Want a shot?”

So why the fuck would I write a full page dissertation on my feelings? Why would I hit “send?” Why am I not surprised that I haven’t heard from the poor sap since?

I’m blaming it on my vagina. Which is responsible for most of the trouble I get into, but this wasn’t even the good kind of trouble.

Stupid pedicure. I just had to access the uterine universe, didn’t I?

Still, at least my feet look nice.

Tags: Essays, Manifestos, & Unsolicited Opinions, Early Wagon Archive: Sex, Drunk, & Rock n' Roll //