Woke Up As a Man: 24 Hours of Testosterone-Fueled Madness

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Have you ever wondered what it would be like to wake up one morning as the opposite sex?No? Well, well, well I have. Maaany times. Usually while watching my husband get ready in the morning in a record-breaking time of 3 minutes and 42 seconds — fully dressed, groomed, caffeinated, and mentally prepared for the day, while I’m still stuck somewhere between serum number 4 and Hydro cream number 2, trying to unstick my eyelashes from my eyebrow.

So, let’s imagine this magical scenario: I wake up one morning as a Gentlemen. For 24 glorious, testosterone-powered hours.

Hour no. 1: The Bathroom Olympics

First of all — and I say this with no shame — I would pee standing UP. Oh, the power. The sheer efficiency of it. No seat covers, no hovering like a Circus artist in public restrooms, no anxiety over touching anything. Just a quick unzip, aim (hopefully), shake, shake again and done. And if nature calls while driving? Boom. A juice bottle solves the problem. The engineering brilliance of male plumbing never ceases to amaze me.

To celebrate, I’d immediately run outside and pee behind a tree. Just because I can. Freedom!

Hour no. 2: Grooming? What Grooming?

A splash of cold water. Fingers run through my hair. A quick swipe of deodorant. DONE. I’d stare in the mirror, amazed. No twelve-step skincare routine. No eye creams. No serums that cost more than my electricity bill. No lips balm, body balm, bum balm and any other balm. No arguing with my reflection about whether my eyeliner wings are the same.

Men age like wine. I age like dairy. It’s just not fair.

Hour no. 3: Breakfast Like a King

As a man, I would eat whatever I want without guilt. An entire breakfast pizza? Yes. Leftover sausages at 8 AM? Absolutely. Double bacon cheeseburger with extra cheese fries and a side of regret? Bring it. Choco, choco, chocolate....Everywhere.

Because men don’t have cellulite. At least, not the tragic, wobbly kind that spreads like a geographical map across thighs and butts. No matter what they eat, somehow their skin stays as smooth as a laminated countertop. The only place where I don't have cellulite is my eyelids. EYELIDS!

Hour no. 5: The Barber Shop Magic

Then I’d stroll into a barber shop, spend £22, and emerge 10 years younger in 14 minutes flat. No foils, no toners, no seven-hour hair appointments where I need to remortgage my house just to cover the cost of the balayage and cut.

“Looking sharp, mate!” the barber would say, slapping my neck. And I’d reply: “Yeah, mate. Cheers.” Flawless.

Hour no. 7: Hitting the Gym (Sort Of)

Now that I have biceps (because obviously overnight transformation includes bonus muscles, big muscles and hairy chest), I’d take them for a spin. I’d go to the gym, loudly grunt through two and a half push-ups, admire my reflection, post a gym selfie with some inspiring quote like “#No pain, no gain”, and call it a day.

My male confidence would be at an all-time high. I’d flex in every reflective surface I passed, including shop windows, toaster ovens, and spoons. Running my hand through my hair.

Hour no. 10: The Unsolicited Stand-Up Comedy/ Dry Jokes Hour

Next on my agenda? Telling terrible jokes with zero shame.

“What can be said about a girl and a Christmas tree at the same time?

A live one smells nicer”

Horrible. Absolutely horrible. LoL. And yet, I’d laugh at my own joke. Loudly. Without an ounce of self-awareness. Because men are blessed with this magical ability to deliver dad jokes with full commitment and zero dignity loss.

Hour no. 15: Mansplaining 102

I’d spend some time explaining things to women who clearly know more than me.

I’d confidently explain how to grill steak to a chef.

I’d advise a yoga instructor on stretching.

I might even try to explain childbirth to a mother of three.

For educational purposes only, of course.

Hour no. 18: The DIY Projects

Oh yes, the infamous male approach to DIY.

No reading instructions. No checking if I have all the parts. Just pure, stubborn confidence, a cordless drill, and a YouTube video playing in the background that I won’t really watch.

I’d build that cabinet that’s been sitting in my house for five months. And "she" doesn't have to remind me about it every few weeks. Sure, I’d put one door upside down and the drawer wouldn’t close, but that’s called “custom design.”

Hour no. 22: My Scent of Choice

As my 24-hour experiment comes to an end, I’d take one last standing pee (just because I still can) and mentally prepare to return to my female form: The multi-step skincare. The complicated outfits. The period cramps. The existential dread of eyebrows tattoo. And, of course, cellulite everywhere.

But you know what? Despite all the envy, I wouldn’t trade being a woman for anything. We’re emotional hurricanes, multitasking wizards, beauty magicians, and chaos managers. We’re basically superheroes in cute shoes.

Although, I might sneak in one more standing pee before midnight. Just for the thrill.

What about you?

If you could wake up tomorrow as someone completely different, who would you be? Please, drop your wildest 24-hour fantasy in the comments!

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