Carpooling Loonies
By Jinki Beldia

Charlene spilled too much

(First of two parts)

Every other misogynist prays for any information that will establish his enmity towards the opposite sex. Loathing is more fun when done with a support group, that’s why like schoolgirls in pigtails, some (big) men hang out together to discuss the flaws of women—something most of us thought only women were good at. But there’s an even number on this one. There are men who think women, who flew in first class aboard an alien craft, are trained to trounce on their maleness. In this time and age, to define maleness is a tedious job and sometimes also requires unzipping pants, so I’ll leave that to the braver ones.

And just when the witches almost celebrated their freedom from being burned at stake, believing they were finally free from the wrath brought upon them by nincompoops who believed worshipping trees and embracing the moon was an evil doing… and the timid housewives thought the neighbors stopped watching them from outside their windows… and the soul sisters started to feel their chests were finally free from the piercing looks of those who refused to see splendor of what rests on top of their bodies… and the college girls started to gain hope they were free from dusk filled with lemonade memories… and the little girls were made to believe they’re going to grow up adored and respected…
Charlene makes her melodramatic entrance in a shoddy stage somewhere in the eighties literally bringing down the house (that brought down with it the self-esteem of women from all races and ages) while she makes an attention-grabbing introduction of a journey that interestingly begins with…Hey lady, you lady, cursing at your life…

There goes the beginning of introspection into a traumatized concept of self worth.
Here’s the rest of it.

You’re a discontented mother and a regimented wife, I’ve no doubt you dream about the things you’ll never do, but I wish someone had talked to me like I want to talk to you. A kilometer and a half away, women are prejudged as an unhappy lot with so much to complain about this reality called life. Predestined to become hormonally challenged, they carry on with the thought that it is alright to remain in a state of discontent in the hope of being accepted as ‘needy’ human beings because biology dictates so. Therefore, with all these imbalances going on in their system they feel the need to have an emotional anchor in the form of another person whom they can share their anguish with. It is because of this that women are perceived as the weaker sex—the nagging thought that there should always be the presence of a pillar to lean on. When they said, “No man is an island,” they failed to mention that it was not meant to reduce people to helplessness.

Oh, I've been to Georgia and California and anywhere I could run. I took the hand of a preacher man and we made love in the sun. But I ran out of places and friendly faces because I had to be free. I've been to paradise but I've never been to me. Escaping is never the best way to get around. However, it takes a lot of walking on fire and wires for one to put her feet back on the ground. Studies in psychology have presented the fact that daydreaming is a healthy option in keeping one’s sanity, but most of us take it to levels for psychology’s fixing. Earlier there was ‘them women’, now there’s an ‘us.’ To simply point fingers on this one is deception. The man sitting right next to you may be the embodiment of whom they consider the ‘preacher man’. They are everywhere and so many women have claimed to have been marred by these saccharine-tongued beings with no respect for whoever lies on the other side of the bed. And making love in the sun simply reflects an open behavior towards sex, the desire to have it, the liberty to talk about it and simply letting neighbors snoop around what goes on under your sheets. When I was young, I thought the line “making love in the sun” actually meant doing it under the scorching heat of the sun, until maturity taught me people do it in dark corners and colder spaces instead. 

I've been undressed by kings and I've seen some things that a woman ain't supposed to see. The study on the sexual behavior of the people of Britain in the 40’s (women were a huge part of the study unlike the Kinsey Report in the U.S.) came out soliciting outrageous reactions from all sides of the world. I wonder what else women haven’t seen at the dawn of the late 70’s (just a peck away from the cherished New Wave era), the time “I’ve Never Been To Me” came out in Charlene’s Somewhere in My Life album. Yes, that album and her quite-disciplined big hair.

Sometimes I've been to crying for unborn children that might have made me complete. But I took the sweet life, I never knew I'd be bitter from the sweet, I've spent my life exploring the subtle whoring that costs too much to be free. It’s more than a bitter pill. Worse than lithium overdose, regret is the world’s biggest killer. It consumes a person slower but far more despicable than Kafka’s oversized maggots. A woman who does not experience motherhood is said to be incomplete--a rather harsh word, and thank God I didn’t invent it or I would eternally suffer from psychological unrest caused by the yakking of (my not so significant) others. But everything in life is a choice except when you do a trial and error on subtle whoring and end up as a big-haired, remorseful woman.

I ran out of coffee. “Charlene spilled too much” will be continued on October 10’s issue.

Email the author at jinki_young@yahoo.com