Just Because Men Don’t Have Periods…

Old men and their iron horses. Photo by Doris Lim

“Ah Kit hasn’t been his normal jovial self of late. Doc, I think he’s melancholy, depressed. Worried and withdrawn. He overeats, has stopped exercising and seemed to be nursing an invisible wound.” I blurted out.

“Seriously, Doc. Why do men become like that? I don’t think it’s something that I’ve done, or didn’t do, say or didn’t say. He imagines things and is slighted over the littlest perceived snub. I really don’t know what’s wrong with him,” I threw my hands in the air. Totally exasperated.

“He refused to talk to me. His silence is deafening. In fact, the kids would say, he has unfriend you, “I complained loudly to Dr Ava. My GP struggled to supress a giggle at Ah Kit’s childish behaviour.

“Dee,” she began calmly as always, pausing for effect, “just because men don’t have periods, doesn’t mean they don’t feel all the touchy feely things that we women do.”

“They do? Doc, do you mean they cry inside tears?” That sounded terribly menopausal but true. Dr Ava laughed aloud and confirmed my query.

“And you, my dear Dee, are all bleeding hearts and compassionate to the point of molly coddling those men. Ah Kit’s not worth another thought. You’ve made a mistake and apologised. Put that episode behind you and move on girl.” She tut-tuts and gave me a motherly hug.

Exactly.

Take my brother for instance. Pushing 50 and curving around the bend with his new sports car and hitting Andropause smack between his myopic eyes.

Cheng Cheng, my niece visited last week.  She recounted a last minute trip to Shanghai with my brother for some building material convention. Cheng Cheng’s my favourite niece, an architect at 23, very bright and pretty and such a lovely girl.

“The first 10 days were horrible,” she wailed.

“Dad’s having his period?” I asked, a little bemused. I know my brother well enough to know what a royal pain he can sometimes be. Poor Cheng. “Tell me?”

“It’s not Dad. In fact he was happy for the entire trip. It’s just the other people in the group. They thought I was his young girl friend and he let them continue to think so. Big ego trip for him!” she wailed loudly, half chuckled. I widened my eyes.

“That’s such an incestuous thought Aunty Dee,” she grinned. I could see where she got that sense of quirky humour from.

“Okay, Cheng Cheng, next time it happens, with the busy bodies, just calls him Dad loudly.”

Aunty Dee always thinks clever thoughts at moments like this when she speaks in the third person.

“I did, Aunty Dee. One woman said to her husband, she calls him Sugar Daddy!” Eeeoooww

Julie whispered in a conspiratorial tone, “Do you know that my ball and chain secretly checks his hairline when he’s parked, waiting for me. I was so mean Dee. Other day I told him, first you call your hair by number. Then one day, you call them by name!” Julie laughed hysterically recalling John’s preoccupation with his hair. It’s just John’s a hairy guy; it’s his crowning glory that’s grown a little barren lately.

“Dee, do you know how I love to annoy him by kissing his bald spot?” she giggled: No way!

“When he tried to grow stubble, I would go up to him and cry loudly black ants, black ants and smack his chin and cheeks repeatedly.”

We laughed at this. That was and still is a fun thing to do, actually. Cheng Cheng, are you taking notes.

Gaik’s husband is the only man I know who drinks ice wine with us girls. Reason: Simple the other men don’t like him.

Gaik said, “The other day, just as he started to scold and complain endlessly, I told him he cannot scold me or the children for no reason at all. I really put my foot down that time. Do you know how he retaliated? He kicked our massage chair until it broke. Now he has to get it fixed and is complaining non-stop of how much it will cost. Imagine he blamed it on our collective diabolical scheme that this happened. He’s so mean with money” Gaik sighed, exasperated.

Imelda’s husband is no better. He sulks and skulks around the house. Sleeps at three or four in the morning, blames it on insomnia. Wakes up after twelve to go to office. His expression is permanently black.

His mood, black. His shoes, black. His clothes black, maybe with a few gray and whites.

“At least his hair is still black!” Imelda laughs gaily as she recounts his moody episodes.

She’s always decked out flamboyantly in loud clashing colours. Her house is wallpapered with flowers in every room. The curtains, carpet and painting are equally loud competing for attention. Maybe that’s why the poor husband is trying so hard to stand out in that over the top, dripping with peaches, honey and sweetness feminine doll house.

We shudder whenever she invites us over for tea and remind each other to wear solid colours or else we will fade into her beautiful garden in every room of the house.

Men are such opposites of their wives. If she’s quiet and demure, he’s recalcitrant and a bully. If she’s loud and brass, he’s mighty mouse with an insanity streak for young girls.

Approaching middle age, the husbands and boyfriends are the best mood swingers. Throw in steady decline in testosterone levels with age, loss of libido and potency, nervousness, depression, impaired memory, the inability to concentrate, fatigue, insomnia, hot flushes, and sweating. There’s a mouthful there, the poor men are at best confused, inebriated would fight nail tooth to regain the last bastion of their youth.

So it starts with men talking under the guise of old boys hanging out. It’s the same boys’ game of “how to drive” played out. Drive from point A to B with the shortest route missing all the traffic lights. Or sometimes that streak of luck when all the lights go green at every stop, and they get to breeze through. It’s keeping tabs and scoring points.

When the woman makes a mistake, her points are zeroised unfortunately.

The same punishing men now lie in bed or asleep in the study alone, waking up in the early mornings to urinate. It used to be waking up to an erection.

“Andy has not been up to par lately and plays a miserable round of golf. Most times, he hangs out at the clubhouse drinking cheap beer and mulling,” a young wife complained to us wiser ladies. “He thinks that Viagra can give him a two day erection! Dr  Ava, is that true?” Young wife brightened up and looked hopefully to us.

Our lovely Doc laughed, clutching her sides. “He will need to go to the hospital even if it’s a one day erection, my dear. By which time you will be raw and bleeding!”

The young wife looked horrified; but her come back took us all by surprise, “Maybe I could give him the lowest dosage, half a tablet?” Those heavily mascaraed false eyelashes batted over her pupil enhancing contact lenses.

We older girls grinned at each other. Yes, his money is cold and hard, not him honey. You’ll be lucky if you get to hold hands the whole night long.

I wondered if young wife is thinking along the lines of half a tablet three times a day, just so she could get her fix. 

I grinned like a maniac at that thought.

Dr Ava shot me a mock silencing stare. More laughter ensued.

When it comes to mood enhancing or mood elevating treatments, we women have it better than men anytime. We have girls’ night out. Shopping sprees. Manicures and Pedicures.

We have hair and get to do our hair. Go for facial and massage. Sometimes we even go the whole nine yards of spa experience with a short holiday, hotel stay and eating trip thrown in. We get to go for Ladies Night and cocktails. The list of fun things is endless.

We cook; we drink and cry our eyes out when we need too. We get to hug and laugh ourselves silly choosing nail polish colour and flower seeds.

We read romance novels. Men almost always call this soft porn and balk openly at the covers depicting scantily dress damsels and brawny men with muscular arms.

We women peer over our glasses and look at our men next to us, roll our eyes and return to the prose. So much more promise than what we have for after dinner activities at home.

Cheng Cheng laughed, she cheered up no end at her Auntie’s verbose prose.

“All my stories make you swear off men, Cheng Cheng,” I asked in jest.

“I suppose they’re good for at least for the first twenty five years,” she quipped and winked.

Doris Lim is a popular freelance writer who blogs as Little Fish on travel and food stories here. Be sure to check out her other inspiring stories and follow her Instagram @SmartDoryID & Facebook to check out more places to eat delicious street foods or dine in the best restaurants!