Chekhov's Mistress
Walk a Mile in Her Shoes
Baby Bjorn
Rarely does a man get to feel what it’s like to be a woman; he can only stand by and watch the baby being born or try and understand what goes on with that unfathomable species with whom we men share the planet. And why, you ask, would he want to? He wouldn’t, I say, but when it happens, even in a small way, it’s shocking.
And so I’ve been trotting our six-month old out in the Baby Bjorn – a carrier where the baby is held on your chest, facing outward – recently and have enjoyed the attention that our little cutey gets. But in some bizarro (reference Seinfeld) way, I’ve gotten a small taste of a woman’s world. Not in the obvious way; carrying around 18 pounds of baby over your belly may be some simulation of being pregnant, but as my wife says, “try that with him kicking your organs and constantly resting all his weight on your bladder.” No, what has been interesting is that I feel like, to be cliched, a piece of meat. Walking down the street, everyone, men and women, are staring at my chest and smiling. They rarely look up at me, but they inevitably smile – at my chest! Now, of course, I know what they’re smiling at, and I appreciate it, but I indulge myself and imagine that this must be what it’s like to have breasts.
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About this Post
- Posted by: Bud Parr
- Date: June 23, 2004
- Filed Under:
Song of Myself: Diary
- Comments:0
- Links to this Post: Technorati
