My Life As A Girl, Part Two

(If you missed Part One of "My Life As A Girl", check it out here.)

How the world changes in just a few short years.

Five years ago, if friends saw me wearing a skirt, they knew it must be Halloween. Jeans and T-shirts were the usual stuff-- slacks if I had to look presentable-- but dresses? I don't think so. They looked fine on other people, but on me? Uhn-uh.

It was really Halloween that finally clued me in. Every year, I dressed up as the same thing: a girl. Not just any girl, either-- a gypsy girl, with a flowing skirt, big jangly jewelry, and entirely too much eye makeup. Stevie Nicks had nothing on me, not in October. I had two drawers full of "girl clothes" that I only pulled out once a year, and for just a few days, I felt feminine, in a wild, spirited, free-floating way. I was a girl! and I enjoyed it.

I'm not sure if someone actually mentioned the irony of the situation, or if it finally dawned on me of its own accord: my alter-ego was female. Until I hit thirty, I'd lived my life with no more concession to gender than was absolutely necessary to get married, have a kid, and find my way into the appropriate restroom in the mall.

Now I found myself drawn to things like fashion magazines, coffee clatches, and shopping. It was...uncomfortable. I felt out of place. Nearly five years into this process, I'll admit that I still feel slightly out of place.

In groups of women, I sometimes have this gnawing feeling that at any moment, they'll realize I'm faking it. I imagine they'll all jump up and point accusing fingers at me, "What does she think she's doing here? The lipstick and heels don't fool me...look, those are welding scars on her arms! Eewww!" I'll have to run for it, bawling my head off, heels and all, thus confirming every damn fool thing I ever believed about women.

Luckily, this hasn't happened. I seem to be able to navigate the mysterious world of women's groups, gossip, and fashion without much fuss. Oh, I'm still more at home with a power tool or a keyboard under my fingers, but I seem to be learning a surprising lesson: the things I once held against women were really things I held against myself.

So what if I like shoes? It's no crime to like to shoe-shop, is it? So what if I change my hair color every few minutes? It doesn't make me less of a writer, less of an artist, less of a person-- plus, it gives me a perverse sort of pleasure to say "No, not tonight...I'm doing my hair."

So what if I cried during Wall-E? So what if I secretly watch The Man From Snowy River and identify with the pretty heroine who has to be rescued because she does something impetuous and stupid? And so what if I cry during that too?

The process of individuation is a funny thing. We all confront it, no matter our biological gender. We discover along the way that the things we fight hardest against are really just parts of ourselves, buried deep and despised, waiting to be dragged out, brushed off, and seen in a new light. These alter-egos beg to be integrated in our lives in their own unique way.

Once we begin accepting them, we suddenly notice that they're not stereotypes anymore. They're not cardboard strawmen of "weak dependant women" nor cardboard cutouts of anything else...and neither are we.

We're individuals, with all the complexity and contradiction that the word implies.

I can weld, I can take off across country on foot, I can hang from trees and cuss. I can flirt, look stunning in a dress and heels, and cry at sad movies. I can do all of these things, and every year feel less and less self-conscious about it. It's good to be alive, and it's good to be a woman, that much I know.

Pink, though, I may never understand.

***


("My Life As A Girl" is Laura F. Walton's contribution to HerStories, V-Day Waco's collection of personal anecdotes about life, love, and womanhood in Central Texas. To contribute your own story, visit the HerStories page of our website here.)