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Being the only representative of the female species in my house, I have resigned myself to living in an all-male household. With my husband, father-in-law and two sons, the testosterone levels in the house far out-weigh the estrogen, and no matter how many times I tell myself (and others) that I am the most important woman in the house (me being the only one, of course), the truth is, I sorely miss another gal-pal ally.

The question ‘how am I looking in this?’ was one that I remember asking my mom and sister with complete trust, secure in the belief that I would get the right, non-monosyllabic answer for it. But now, with only my husband and my five-year-old son (I had to try the question on him too) as audience, I realize that men/ boys can seldom answer this question satisfactorily – ‘fine/ nice/ okay/ good’ is just not good enough, if you know what I mean.

And, no matter what a girl says, we’ve got to watch a romantic movie/ chick-flick at least once a month and exercise those God-given tear ducts. It’s a rule somewhere (and if it isn’t, it should be). That mushy feeling that only chick-flicks can give you is something that every woman should demand as her right, and alas, with cricket, news and Ben 10 vying for TV time, any girly movies that I might aspire to see are hopelessly ridiculed.

It’s a sad, sad feeling, let me tell you.

Now another thing that is part embarrassing and part bugging is that no matter how fast I get dressed, I am always the last one to get ready. For any men out there smirking about the hours that women spend getting dressed, let me tell you that it’s just the number of options that we have to sift through. A shirt and trouser/ jeans just don’t compare to the jeans/shorts/ salwar/ saree/ capris/ dress options that we have. But having said that, it is disconcerting to be the last one to walk out and find three men and a baby waiting a little impatiently for you.

And then, of course, is the all-time monster that men seem to run away from – conversation. There is no other way to say it – its hardwired into the female brain…we just need to talk. It could be about the new book we just finished, the maid playing truant, the bitchy colleague or even a discussion on the chick-flick we just saw. But men avoid it like the bubonic plague. My husband is happy to listen to me, but invite him to join in with a few precious words and poof! he’s gone.

When I danced to Geri Halliwall’s ‘It’s raining men’ in college, I didn’t imagine it would be like this. Like they say – be careful what you wish for…