Ladies throw your feet up in the air because 2010 marks the 50th anniversary of the birth control pill.
My love-hate relationship with the pill is well documented. In the “pro” category, complete freedom for spontaneous activity, absolute regularity and a lighter ride of just 4 days. Plus you can skip the placebos and entire ebb and flow that month should you have a special event or need to wear white. The “cons” however put me off and have kept me off, primarily the weight gain. Not only the water retention but actual gaining of real body weight, the "whose ass is this?!" variety. Since the pill tricks the body into thinking it's pregnant, it screams to store fat. That shit ain't funny because within 2 weeks of popping the first of the pack, 10 pounds come on and stay on, even long after quitting them.
Now after half a century, the pill has three new side effects you should know about, or so reports a local radio chat show (btw, when did morning radio get so dumb and vapid? Or is it just the Denver market? Thank God for Brett Saunders.) British scientists claim the pill makes you brainier and can actually swell grey matter essential for social skills and memory. Second it changes your taste in men, preferring softer, more feminine features over a macho and chiseled type. Balls. I call balls. The men I’m attracted are 1) funny 2) taller than me and 3) the ones who ask me out. On the pill or off.
And third, it creates extreme jealousy. You men are screwed (or more to the point, not).
Pity us ladies, often stereotyped the more emotional of the sexes and hormones only exacerbate it. The weeping tendencies, the mood swings, the desire to eat a can of chocolate frosting are real, but the majority of our contraceptive choices are hormone-based. Even the IUD can contain a small amount. The diaphragm is natural but a bit messy and awkward; I spent the better part of 10 minutes trying to fish one out this weekend.
Patches and rings and shots…all chemical. And condoms, not so pleasant for us either. They can delay or prolong a (okay, your) big finish and the slippery friction we enjoy becomes akin to rubbing sticks together to make fire.