Women Studies

The night was young and I was hungry. I went to the usual place where I take my dinner—it's a brief walk from where I live and the price of every meal meets my daily budget so long as I refuse to eat more than what I can chow—and sat near the corner spot where the chair was still vacant. The place was big enough to accommodate tens of people and it was almost crowded that evening. But it was nothing really new. What was new, at least in my recent history, is this: there were two ladies sitting comfortably by the next table and I can't help but overhear their conversation, what with their inviting voices taking the form of rapid and rabid bursts of words which did not quite seem to mind those whose ears are highly receptive. Through the years, I've developed this habit of involuntarily listening to conversations. I do not know for certain if it's a useful vice or a worthless virtue, but the ladies made me realize it's not as bad as I thought it can be. I've learned something.

The three of us did not get to talk together—and I was thankful we did not—but all along I felt like I was an uninvited guest, one who was not permitted by the female species to intrude but was allowed to listen to the whole experience anyway, preferably from beyond an invisible electric fence. Judging by the way one of the two ladies talked, who was also the one more assertive, she seized every phrase like an angry protester standing against an even angrier mob. If only words have necks, she could have effortlessly twinged them by her tender hands, and the vowels and consonants would have instantly died from suffocation. The other girl was less assertive but also not fairly reserved with her demeanor. She mostly played the role of the apprentice or one who is like a pimple waiting to burst open with rage—two ways of saying the same thing—raising her falsetto voice whenever the star of the show gave the cue, and shrieking to her heart's content for no apparent reason. The ordeal went for about thirty minutes and they talked about their boss who was, for all intents and purposes, the apple of their eyes.

I finished my meal way ahead of them. By the time I left, they were still trying to figure out how to nail their boss, whatever that means. If only I was watching them as if I was watching a film, I could have brought a bag of baloney with me and enjoyed the blockbuster without having to pay for it.

Before, I've had the chance to ponder upon the question of how much girl talk is too much. More than two years have already passed since the day the riddle first crossed my mind and I still haven't found the answer. I guess I've been starting off with the wrong premise all along. Maybe there really is no answer. Or maybe there isn't any question in the first place. Perhaps, a "girl talk" is just what it is—a girl talk. It could well be the reason why the ladies weren't so wary about the diners around them in the first place. For the two ladies, there was nothing to hide and be ashamed of. On the contrary, there was everything to show and be proud of. As the assertive one said, "having a good job with a nice pay is just icing on the cake—but having a hot boss, now that's priceless." She said it as if she struck gold in a mining pit for the first time in a very long time. Of course, there's absolutely not a single intention to allude to a gold digger there. Trust me.

Many things have already been said about the distinction between the male and female sexes. Women are from Venus and men are from somewhere else. We don't really quite know where, but it has to be somewhere, perhaps between Patrick Dempsey's crotch or thereabouts. Which partly explains why we can never be as good-looking as the Grey's Anatomy phenom. But the world isn't about men. I think it's more about women than Justin Bieber—and Bieber isn't even a boy to begin with. The reason why it's more about women is that there really is no reason why it should be more about men. Nobody wants a sausage fest.

But seriously, there's something about women that I can't thoroughly explain. Either that, or I've missed the package with the memo. If there's such a subject in college as Women Studies, no one will ever graduate a summa cum laude for reasons that are too plain to state here.

I learned that I still need to learn more.