The testosterone equation

There are times I wish I was a man:
When there isn’t a rest stop in sight and I need to pee.
When I want to put my fist in someone’s face.
When I need to take my car to the mechanic.
When… oh hell, that’s about it.
There are times when I grateful beyond measure that I am a woman (hear me roar!). 
Testosterone must be a terrible challenge to live with. Outnumbered by men in my home I am starting to accept that living with testosterone is a biological hazard. 
Once that man switch gets flicked there is nothing a woman can do but sit back and watch the situation unfold.
Picture this…
Lightning splits the sky. 
A curtain of rain falls to earth. 
Men scramble through the mud to the safety of their cars. 
Simultaneously they all edge towards the exit. 
The switch is flicked. 
It is not about getting home anymore. 
It is war. 
It is about being first – no matter what. 
The field on which they parked now turned into an ancient battlefield where man takes on man in a primordial battle for supremacy. 
It is every man for himself. 
Women and children sit mute as their alpha males enter the fray.
It was about now that my husband decided that he would rather die than let the Toyota Landcruiser take the forward position. 
Me: “Darling. He’s already driven over two traffic cones. I don’t think he is in a very good mood. Perhaps we should allow him to go first?”
Him: “No! I refuse. I was here first and I’ll be damned if I let him in.”
I shut up, regarding it as the most prudent course of action. About, oh, 30 seconds later the Landcruiser driver rammed into the back of our compact little Ford. Then he reversed and rammed us again. I started to pray.
Husband: “I’m getting out.”
Me in tones of pure ice: “No, you are not. I told you he was not in a good mood. I have his registration. Just let it go.”
Husband opening door: “I’m going to take his picture!”
Me: “By all means, if getting a fist in your face is how you’d like this evening to end. And once we are home, I’ll knee you in the balls for being a stupid idiot. Let. It. Go.”
Did I mention my mother was in the car? No? Well she was. Awkward much? We tried, we really did, not to take the piss. We failed.
Halfway home, my husband is ready to turn the car around and scour the streets for the Toyota driving maniac. By now he has convinced himself that he has let himself down as a man. A real man would have got out of the car and indulged in a bit of old fashioned mud wrestling. 
That was three days ago. Each morning at the school he eyes each Toyota Landcruiser with an Attila the Hun type of gleam in his eye.
Him: “Is that it? Was that him?”
Me: “No.”
Me: “What are you doing to do if you find him exactly?”
Him: “I’ll key his bloody car, that’s what I’ll do.”
Me: “Wasn’t it you who once told me that two wrongs don’t make a right?”
Him: “It’s not about bloody right and wrong. It’s about satisfaction. God! Don’t you understand men at all?”
Apparently not.

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