For me, it's quite easy to give me a poke in the metaphorical eye (even easier to actually poke me in the eye, especially if I am sans glasses). Scrape hard enough at this cynical, wise-cracking exterior and underneath it is a snivelling, overweight drunk girl wishing to be scooped up by a big burly man and carried away to safety. It ain't a pretty sight.
Usually, such attacks upon the female ego (now referred to as the "Fego") are counteracted by any of the following
- Climbing into the bath with an entire cheesecake and not surfacing, despite the fact that you sent in a submarine search party three hours earlier
- 1AM phone calls to the significant other, consisting of either "Why did your colleague/roommate/nobody in particular have her hand on your shoulder in that picture on FaceBook? I DON'T WANT YOU TO TOUCH ME ANY MORE!" or, more likely, "Heeeeeeeegggihaaaatemyseeelfandilooklikea-hor-hor-hor-whooooooooooooore..."
- Opening the freezer and using your hairdryer and straighteners to free that Credit Card you froze back in January. Or rather, opening the freezer and inserting your own head.
- Occupying yourself in the kitchen and protesting "I'm just busy" when actually you are drinking Fairy Liquid from the bottle and pouring Vodka onto the dishplates
- Music Therapy. Usually this involves John Lennon, Colin Hay, Aerosmith's Ballads (excluding I Don't Want to Miss a Thing-era schmaltz) or if the dent is severe, the entirety of The Best...80s Ballads. Note: this can also be a sign of severe concussion.
What do men do when their egos are hurt? I know my boyfriend swears not to be the jealous type, but when a certain old acquaintance got over-complimentary he unleashed a 20 Questions-style interrogation on me that lasted the rest of the walk to the car and was conducted with the nonchalance of someone casually trying to get away with having a phone conversation on the toilet. But what goes through his head? Does she fancy him? Did she fancy him? Is she going to leave him for me? Will he come running out of the shop right now in slow-motion, artfully scattering a flock of pigeons while shouting her name, and will she turn around in slow-mo and run into his arms while I cry into my Primark bag? Will they begin having sex on the cobblestones in front of WHSmiths?
Men, please. Enlighten me, or rather us, the collective women who make up most if not all of the female interaction in your life. Because we want to know that when you don't think you're successful or good-looking or clever, you feel the urge to climb under the covers and wait for it to all go away.