Not a girlie girl
There’s been a wonderful influx of honest feminist discussions lately, with topics from body positivity, to masturbation to menstruation. I thought I’d add my own life perspective to the pile.
I’m not a girlie girl.
I know, shocker, right?
Because of that, I’m not really viewed as a “woman” by society in general. And that kinda sucks. I look young for my age. Now, don’t get me wrong, I don’t think I look youthful, or any of those face cream commercial slogans. I think I look juvenile; like a girl rather than a woman. Totally different thing. A much crappier thing.
“Go on through, kid.”
That was what a man said to me just yesterday when I was in a rush to get past him. Kid. KID. KIIIDDDDDDDD. I’m twenty-eight damn years old and he took one look at me and assumed I was a child.
When I had my last smear test, the nurse and I got talking about contraception, and she suggested I try the five year contraceptive implant. You know, even though I’ve been married for four years and I’d be into my thirties by the time the implant came out? Yeah…
Most people my age would be discussing baby making but no… I got a longterm contraceptive talk usually aimed at teens. I actually had to flash her my wedding band before she would believe my age. Reaaallll confidence boost, let me tell you. Not her fault, really. She was only doing her job. She assumed I was a kid, like everyone else.
Perhaps it’s because I’ve never worn makeup. And really, how the hell do you people do that, anyway? You’re so skilled. I am in awe of you all. How do you do all the eye things without stabbing yourself at least once a day? So many questions. And don’t even get me started on hair straighteners. That hot sizzling iron thingie… near my SCALP AND FACE? I’d end up in A&E.
How? Just… how? So cool.
I don’t understand how dresses, tights, and lady-shoes work, either. I know, I know. I’m broken. I don’t belong in the Women Club. It’s what it feels like, sometimes. But the truth is, I don’t WANT to find out. Jeans are more comfortable, tights confuse me, and heels seem more torture than luxury. I’m good, really.
There’s absolutely nothing wrong with being a girlie girl, by the way. I admire the heck out of every last one of you. My life would be a lot easier if I liked those things. It just isn’t for me. I have a wallet instead of a purse. I carry a camera bag instead of a handbag. I also really dig men’s sprays and stuff — oh, and men’s PJs. They have pockets and everything. Sooper cool.
I feel like Claudia in Interview With The Vampire, sometimes. Inside, I’m a grown-ass woman. I stopped giggling at “penis” “fanny” and “tits” at least sixteen years ago. Mostly. But on the outside… it’s a completely different story.
I get caught in this circle of perception: people think I’m young, so it makes me self conscious when doing perfectly adult things. What are they thinking? whizzes around in my head until I probably do look like a bloody fifteen year old trying to buy beer for the first time.
And the looks that people give me when I tell them I’ve been with my husband for FOURTEEN YEARS! Oh, God, it never gets old.
Like me. Ba dum tsh.
Other lovely ladies in the 28 club
Women stuff though.
I Just. Don’t. Get. It.
I toyed with the idea of trying to GIRL-UP for a while. I thought maybe I could watch some YouTube tutorials and figure out how the hell eyeliner and lipstick works. But it just isn’t me, you know? I don’t want to change for anyone else. Should I really have to?
I’m sure this won’t be an issue in a few years. Soon, I’ll be a thirty-forty-or-fifty-something in jeans and T-shirt that people will mistake for an adult. If for no other reason than teens aren’t that crinkly or grey.
I, for one, can’t wait!