LOVE/THOUGHTS: WOMAN ARE CRAZY

It’s 8 o’ clock at night. I get home from a long day’s work and before I can take off my coat, my cell phone rings. It’s her, and although we’d talked for hours the night before, instant messaged, emailed and exchanged texts all day, I still couldn’t wait to hear her voice.

Flash forward six hours and we’re still on the phone, deep in parley. Our conversation has traversed all matter of subject: Jungian collective subconscious, twelve dimensional universes and the implicate order, Sufi poetry and East Indian sex manuals predating the Kama Sutra. We’d gone from intellectual to emotional to deeply sensual and back; a veritable cornucopia of colloquy.

And then, at two-fifteen in the morning, everything flips. Something I said must have hit her tripwire, because without warning, she became irrational, aggressive and hostile. Her voice went all pitchy, and in a millisecond the water between us went from steam to ice. She slammed the phone down in my ear, and now I was lying in the dark, heart stinging, ears ringing, wondering what the HELL had happened.

‘That bitch’ I told myself ‘is crazy.”

Before anyone gets their panties in a bunch, let’s insert the appropriate disclaimers. First of all, I only ever use the word ‘bitch’ in a friendly, familiar way; the way really good friends greet each other with insults. Embracing a term of derision can convert it into a term of endearment, provided you only do this with people you have genuine affection for. That’s why I can call my guy friends bastards,  et cetera, without having to worry about offending anyone. Use the expression with someone with whom you are not intimately acquainted, or in anger, and you deserve what’s coming to you.

Second, I’m clearly speaking in gross generalizations. Not all women are bitches, or crazy, but let’s do the math: Some women are bitches, some people are crazy, all women are people. Hence, some women are crazy bitches.

Men aren’t crazy; men are dicks. We may do things that are thoughtless, inconsiderate, or just plain ignorant. But generally speaking we’re of sound mind when we do them. Put it this way: if emotional states were an amusement park ride, what would be the male equivalent? The bumper cars: a ‘vehicle’ with no brakes and no seat belts, surrounded by rubber where the whole point of the ride is to slam into another vehicle so hard you jar their teeth loose.

The female version of an amusement park ride is obviously the roller coaster. From the initial climb up that first steep hill, you can feel the tension building slowly, until that first drop puts your stomach up in your throat, and then flips, speeds, twists and turns in ways designed to separate you from your sense of equilibrium. Like women, roller coasters can be simultaneously unpredictable, terrifying and euphoric.

And we love every second of it. Let’s face it; there’s a reason no one lines up for the merry-go-round.

Men and women have the ability to be dicks and crazy, respectively. The amount to which they exercise this depends on the individual and the circumstance. Not all men are dicks and not all women are crazy, but if you think some guy you know is so loving and kind he doesn’t have the capacity to be a complete dick, you don’t know him well enough. Conversely, if you’re naive enough to believe that some woman is so demure and sweet that she doesn’t have the capacity to completely flip the script on you, you don’t know her well enough.

Estrogen is a helluva drug. I’m convinced if you could chop it up and snort it, the effect would be equivalent to ingesting a combination of cocaine, meth, and ‘shooms. Sometimes you can actually see the mind working feverishly behind the madness, as I’ve heard my female friends muse aloud ‘why do I feel like killing everyone I know today?’ The smartest, most emotionally stable women I know are still prone to occasional bouts of hormone induced hysteria, which obviously can be aggravated by dickish behavior in men.

I wasn’t being a dick, and I couldn’t think of anything I’d done to elicit such a strong reaction. I was still trying to figure out when I zigged where I was supposed to zag when the phone rang. It was two-thirty in the morning.

‘I’m sorry’, she said contritely, ‘for being such a bitch.’

“Apology accepted,’ I replied. ‘I know you’re crazy.’

‘Well then why do you put up with my shit?’ she asked.

‘Simple’ I countered. ‘Because you’re extraordinary.’

I felt all of her softness return. ‘Define “extraordinary”‘ she said.

‘This is easy’ I told her. ‘I leave my house in the morning. I see a beautiful woman. I think to myself “Wow, I’d love to fuck her.” This is not extraordinary. This is about the most ordinary thing a man can think. Given the number of women I encounter on any given day, that thought may pass through my head anywhere from fifty to one hundred times. However I already know: chances are that bitch is crazy. We might fuck once or twice; maybe thrice, but sooner or later her crazy is going to kick in, and then physical attraction alone won’t be reason enough to tolerate her bullshit.’

‘The next level’ I continued ‘is mental: when a woman truly makes you think, when she pushes your mind in new directions, when she challenges your intellectual capacity and makes you consider things in ways you never have before. This is highly unusual, but it’s not extraordinary. Deep down she’s crazy too, and when she goes cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs, perspicacity won’t be sufficient cause to continue conversing.’

‘The level above that is when your feelings are engaged. You begin to really care about someone, and it’s reciprocal. Souls merge and hearts intertwine. This is extremely rare’ I said, ‘but still not extraordinary. Sooner or later the straight-jacket hanging in her walk-in closet is going to make an appearance, and it won’t be to make a fashion statement. Right about then I’ll be looking for a marble sink I can throw out of a window and make my escape.’

‘I work under the assumption that ALL women are crazy. This includes the woman who can challenge your mind, soothe your soul and inflame your senses. Is she crazy? Hell yes. In fact, her special brand of madness is probably in direct proportion to how extraordinary she is; she’s extraordinarily crazy. But she’s worth it.

‘You’re worth it. I can deal with any version of your lunacy, because at the end of the day, that which is worth having is worth paying for, and if the price of being with you is dealing with your crazy, sign me up.’

‘Cause I loves me some crazy bitches.’