• Imagine how the caveman discovered that he was different from the cavewoman
Image: PIXABAY
Diary,
I imagine a time long ago, when one caveman realised that female cave people had less hair on them than men did, and so, observing the woman’s more exposed body, he thought, “Hm! I wonder what else is different?”
Something about the shape of her… just about everything — eyes, legs, boobs, hands, hips, mouth — fascinated our caveman. Somehow, even the lumpy bits a woman employed primarily for perching on a rock seemed softer, gratuitous and more alluring.
I imagine the caveman racking his brains, trying to come up with a way to explain his exciting new discovery despite the fact that his fellow cave dudes were busy discovering fire and the wheel. He thought her bossom resembled a pair of melons, the derriere was shaped like an apple, eyes like almonds. “I got it,” he said in whatever language cavemen used. “Women are fruity.”
He tested the idea on his friend.
“That maybe so,” said the friend, furtively, “but not all her parts are shaped like fruits.”
“What is it with you? You know the B-U-T word is offensive.”
“Aren’t you the one who keeps asking why we always have to agree? I thought you’d be the first to champion differing opinions. We should say B-U-T without offending anyone.”
“Different, you say?” The cavemen pondered the idea. “You’re right. Women are different. They are like us, but—”
“Shh! I didn’t say you could just blather the word,” the friend cautioned. “Take your own advice and say B-U-T…”
And that’s how “beauty” was born.
I know, I know. Overly elaborate, and a clearly disturbing picture of how my brain works when I’m idle, but it amazes me that even at this age of electrical vehicles and flying cars and AI and gender assignment surgery (Yeah! You could change from a caveman if on the inside you feel like a cave woman), we still very much judge women by cavemen standards.
According to my friends, physical beauty is reason enough for me to marry Harper, my very attractive American ex-fiancée.
“I’d rather complain about a wife who looks like a model,” Lucas the mechanic says, “than come home to a woman who looks like me.”
“I agree,” I say, “but only because you’re one hell of an ugly bloke, Lucas.”
Though we get a good laugh out of it, I still maintain that many a marriage that starts with looks ends up in hell.