I have secretly always wanted to be a girly-girl.
Apparently fate had other plans for me though.
I was born to a short woman and a VERY tall man many moons ago, and, of course, i took after HIM.
*Strike number one*
Mom divorced dad when I was a mere 6 months old, and promptly moved me into a neighborhood where I was the only girl my age…. thus leaving me to be “raised” by boys.
*Strike number two*
As I grew into “womanhood” (were you paying attention? it was far more like “tomboyhood” TBH), I was taller and lankier than any other female I knew. I was about as far from “cute” and “girly” as one can get and still have ovaries. I stood a full 5’8″ at the ripe old age of 13, and my hair was melded into a permanent ponytail. Nobody ever sat me down and told me how to put on makeup, pantyhose, or high heeled shoes (“Why the hell would I ever need high heeled shoes?!” I thought back then). Dresses were for church or funerals, and a curling iron may as well have been a torture device in my household.
Add to all this the fact that my ex-hippie mom was no fan of bras (on her best day she may be an A cup), and I was doomed.
*AND SHE’S OUT!*
By the time I turned 18 it was more than obvious I wasn’t going to take after mom’s side of the family in the boob department. I was already carrying around these 34 B’s that would grow to prefect 36 C’s by the end of my senior year. My hips were filling out and my waist was shrinking away. I was turning into one big curve.
And I was TERRIFIED.
What was I supposed to do with all this? Why was this happening to me? W T F ? ? ?
It wasn’t until my freshman year of college that I started to mimic my roommate’s preening habits. I wanted so badly to be like her in all ways physical. She was barely 5′ tall, with long waves that had this amazing multi-tonal quality that made it change colors when we walked to class on sunny days. Her eyes were big and sprouted these amazing lashes. Her clothes always matched, and they hugged her curves in all the right places. Her nails were polished (even the ones on her toes!), and her lips were shiny all the time like she had JUST finished licking them.
I was in awe… and I was INSANE with jealousy.
I spent the better part of each day trying to emulate my fabulously feminine roommate. I bought makeup and curling irons and heels and lacy lingerie. I read Cosmo and Glamour and Vogue religiously. I studied articles about eyeliner like it was for my master’s thesis. And little by little it started to sink in.
Since those first few days learning how to be what I was BORN to be, I have evolved into the woman I am now. I now know the proper way to apply my makeup so as to avoid the “street walker” look, and I have also learned that just because I like a particular fragrance doesn’t mean the entire room will, so I should apply it sparingly. I own (literally) hundreds of pairs of shoes, and my credit cards and phone travel in a nice designer bag instead of my pockets now. You would think I had this girly-girl thing on lockdown.
But you would be wrong.
No matter how much makeup I put on, or how well-coiffed my hair may seem, something always seems amiss. I’m just not a natural at this whole thing. I always feel as though I am playing dress-up. I constantly lust for the ease and grace I see on the faces of the other women around me. I long to be so carelessly feminine.
I don’t know what else to do. Perhaps I am just not meant to be a “girly-girl”. Perhaps I am doomed to a life of jeans and ponytails. Perhaps I am trying to become someone I just am not.
So I pretend to love my casual attire. I pretend to favor the au-naturale look to the ever-popular sex kitten style. I extoll the virtues of my carefree lifestyle whenever I can.
But I want to let you in on a little secret…
IT IS A LIE.
So if you want to know the way to my heart… if you care to make me feel like a queen… offer to treat me to a spa day. Tell me how cute I am. Call me girly names. Open jars for me. Squish spiders in defense of my delicateness. Just treat me like a girl.
And I will love you forever.
