I’m Not Crazy, I Have Lady Brain
I am victim of my own paranoia. If you’re female, chances are, you are too. I like to call it lady brain. Lady brain is fueled by hormones, a male dominated society, Nicholas Sparks novels, and Shonda Rhimes television shows. It’s that feeling you just can’t shake, when all you want to do is stop feeling.
Lady brain leads to the least productive critical thinking. Desperate searches for the subtext of a text message. Men don’t leave subtext. Stop reading into every letter, every word, every emoji. But you can’t. What does it mean? Why is that capitalized? What is he actually saying with the winky face emoji? Oh dear God, what emoji should I send in return!? Who the fuck cares. It doesn’t really matter what emoji you send in response to a winky face.
There’s a more than 60% chance the winky face means he wants to have sex with you. But, thanks to lady brain, you cannot think rationally about the winky face emoji.
Lady brain leads you to take screen shots of conversations to remind yourself later you are loved. Looking at them hours, days, weeks later, filling your doubts with little grains hope. The comfort of a single photograph on a screen. Even if he’s distant now, he loved me on Tuesday at 12:15 pm, and I have proof! Seriously?! That’s fucking crazy. Just like lady brain.
It forces you to check your phone a hundred million times in the span of an hour, just in case. It fills you with self doubt. It questions your every move. Your every outfit. Your every eye shadow palette. It creeps through your body, like a cancer eating your confidence, rational thinking, and independent spirit. Congratulations! You’re now officially crazy, because your projected femininty has taken your individuality. You’re just another woman living in a Nicholas Sparks novel. Spoiler alert: nine times out of ten, those novels end with one party in the romance dying. Good luck.
Lady brain connects itself to your biological clock. That’s were the hormones come into play. It wants you to seriously consider mating in reguards to every man you encounter. Should he father my children? Is he too old? Will he die young and I’ll be left to mother alone? What if he forgets the kids in the car and they suffocate!? Will he go to prison? Will I be left to mother alone!? Oh. My. God. Crazy.
On the other end, the biological clock catapults lady brain into full force because you think it’s time to find a procreation partner. Blind dates. Bar crawls. OkCupid. Tinder. Whatever you want to call it, lady brain is on the hunt for some viable sperm. You have a five, ten, fifteen year plan and you’ve got to get moving if you want children to factor in. Lady brain can thank our society for that one. Thank you pressures of the modern age meets survival of the fittest!
The real lady brain clincher: you’re completely aware it’s happening.
Like a horror-story surgery where the anesthesia wears off as they are clipping out your appendix, you see everything that lady brain does. Yet, you can’t stop it.
As the words come out of your mouth “Why hasn’t he called!?” your non-lady brain screams in agony, “Who knows! Who cares? Don’t eat that cookie! It won’t make him call any sooner.” You bite down on your fourth chocolate chip cookie in the last fifteen minutes because lady brain cannot be stopped.
You spend your days hoping that at some point your lady brain will calm the fuck down. Maybe with marriage. Maybe with meopause. Maybe with the right prescription drugs.
The moral of this story is that we are all paranoid. If you’re a man, you think women crazy. If you’re a woman, you know what it’s like. And if you’re a member of society, you wish we could change it.
Well, can we?
Get back to me. In the meantime, I’ve got some texts to overanalyze.