I’m Drowning In Testosterone And I’m Hiding

I’m a coward when outnumbered 

Yes, I KNOW I'm Hiding
Yes, I KNOW I’m Hiding

That would be why I’m hiding in my office on a Friday night and pecking out this post.

To escape the testosterone poisoning. I’m literally drowning in it and the office is my only refuge from talk about nuts, nads, the comparisons of Trouser Schnauzers (yeah, right) and inch worms and best of all, how to nail the enemy by kicking them in the pistachios and laughing like a loon while the injured party lay on the ground gasping.

I need something a lot stronger than Calgon

Okay, so I liked the nad knockin’  part, I’ll admit that, but I had to flee for my sanity and for the sake of all I hold dear (like my sense of smell) when the shoes and socks were discarded, feet were stretched out and the talk changed to other manly things like…gas. If I know this bunch of testoster-nots, they’ll be following the talk up with live demonstrations and I’m just not that strong a woman.

I tried but I’m not.

Where are the damn ear plugs when I need them?

I’m huddled here in my office/bedroom/pretend oasis that isn’t even close to being calm, wishing I had soundproofed the damn thing and maybe added an big air filtration system that was separate from the rest of the house while I was being a DIY-er.

The sounds are all too clearly heard, even in here. My room/office/false oasis that much more resembles a scene from Where The Wild Things Are, rather than that of a life raft or any type of flotation device for that matter.

Get me a JD and Coke, sans the JD and make it a double

If I were stuck out in the ocean, drowning in humungous waves of testosterone, I’d probably be the yelling idiot clinging to the half blown up ring that was meant for tubing on the river, rather than in the waves of...maleness, with my luck.

Chances are you wouldn’t hear me yelling anyway. The sounds of battle, war whoops of victory and the agony of de feet are overwhelming!

 

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