The Complete Man vs. The Incomplete Woman?

On my way home from work this evening, I was reflecting on the same issues that have plagued me for some time now, many of which are listed in previous posts on this same blog. But for a change, instead of rueing the fact that I am stagnating mentally, physically, musically, epidermically, ecumenically...I could go on....anyway, I started to wonder just how many women feel the same way that I do. Not any of those things specifically - but a general feeling of inadequacy.

Millions of them, I'll bet, thought I. Yes, but I am not looking for a number. The real question is what are the factors that lead to this sense of inadequacy? Where do they stem from? And above all, if I were to ask ALL the women in the world what made them feel inadequate, what would come out at the top of the list?

I started thinking of an expansive list. In this country, I am pretty sure 99% of all women would feel inadequate because of their bodies. I can guarantee you no woman is happy with her body, especially not the woman you boys are staring at and going, "Wow, she's HOT!" Believe it or not, she's probably walking to the nearest church and asking the pastor to forgive her, father, for she has sinned, and it has been one week since her last Oreo cookie, twelve since her last confession.

Us fat ones, on the other hand, are looking at you with the expression, "Go on, I dare you to say it. Come on - try telling me I'm fat....see what happens to you."

In India, I think the only people who would be more unhappy than all the girls in "Commerce" or the "Arts" departments in the 11th and 12th standards are the three boys in those same classes. The girls are thinking, "I'm not smart enough to be in the Sciences, and here I am. My parents are already wondering who will marry me, my friends think I am stupid and everyone thinks I'll become a teacher, since I can't do anything else anyway. I wish I were dead."

The boys are thinking, "I'm dead. I'm dead. I'm dead."

I'm probably wrong, but I don't know if many women would feel sexually inadequate, i.e., that they can't perform. The memory of Meg Ryan faking an orgasm in When Harry Met Sally comes to mind quite vividly....

Women all over the world who can't bear children, of course, blame themselves....and only very few learn that it could be their husbands who are impotent. Fewer still fathom this concept.

Anyway, I thought along these lines for a little while, and then suddenly it occured to me that I could probably try and conduct a little research on this subject, just out of interest. I am not a psychology major, and I was quite sure I would need to read a ton of literature on the subject, but funnily enough, as I took the first steps towards that by searching Google and Google Scholar for papers or books on the subject, very few appeared. This gives me hope.

So that is the burning question of the day - what makes women feel inadequate?

(Well, at least I've put the idea out there. Let's see if it works, or at least if I follow it through with some discussions/brainstorming/general assessment of what it will take and so on).

Open Roads

Two days ago, I finally managed to overcome the fear of something that has been plaguing me for some time now. It has been 10 months since I started driving, and although in the presence of other passengers in my car, I was completely comfortable driving on the freeway, I was terrified to do so alone. Perhaps stories of the types of accidents that occur led to this fear, or simply the fact that in Los Angeles, people drive as though their foot is glued to the accelerator. But for a very long time, I would carefully avoid the 'endless' roads if my presence was required at a place other than my office, a grocery store or at the airport.

I had no idea what I had been missing.

The feeling of exhileration that traveling with little or no constraints affords is indescribable. For the first time in my life, I actually felt like I had the freedom to just keep going on and on. I might have had a destination, but I had forgotten it. I felt as though the wheels of my car were barely touching the ground, and that if I went any faster, it would turn into a plane and take off into the sky.

The fear was still there, of course. But it had mutated into a sort of thrill, as though it had been laced with excitement. I doubt it will be replaced by a sense of "been-there-done-that" or become a habit any time soon.

My white chariot flies like the wind, and I see rivers and mountains and open skies ahead of me. My hair stands on end, my heart beats rapidly. The world is my canvas, adventure my brush, excitement my colour and humanity my frame.