Yesterday someone told me I'm not girly. My first instinct was to laugh in his face. Probably not the most respectful of responses, but it's what I considered. Before I could start the manic laughter, I actually paused to think about what he said. As I mulled, I realized I was slightly put off by his flippant comment. But why?
Was it because it seemed pointless for him to point out? Or because he was a friend? Did I cherish his opinion? Did I hold stock in it? Was it the implication that I'm boyish? That I didn't have a girly side? Or was it something more?
Usually, I couldn't give a damn what people think of me, friends or foes. That's not saying I don't value what *some* people think, but please note the emphasis on 'some'. You see, in my older age I've come to terms with the fact that people have their own thoughts and opinions and that those thoughts and opinions sometimes extend to me. It's all out of my control. And I'm okay with that. The people who matter will understand me, and excuse my inappropriate behaviours.
The thing is, I do think I'm girly. I just don't flaunt it. Tomboys rarely ever do.
Wait, hold up. Am I saying I'm a tomboy?
Yes, yes I am.
As a young girl, I spent a copious amount of time with boys. (Well, that didn't come out right.) I mean, I had a lot of guy friends, and three brothers, and kind of was my dad's sidekick for my early years. Which meant, I kind of cultivated a boyish outlook on life. And I didn't have anyone to teach me how to be a girl. Both my sisters moved out when I was fairly young and my mom worked full-time and had my brothers to contend with. So, I was left to piece it together on my own.
I guess I did a pretty crappy job. Even though I wear dresses and paint my nails - sure the paint ends up everywhere and my dress gets dirty.
So, maybe a tomboy can't be girly?
Instead of crossing my arms and pouting, and looking unbelievably cute while doing so, I decided to ask some people what they considered girly - just in case I had it wrong and I'm actually a man. Well, you might be surprised at how many scrunched up noses and eye-rolls I got. Apparently, girly-girls don't go over well. Little did I know, girly is actually another word for high-maintenance. Surprise!
Here is a brief run-down of what the people I consulted considered to be 'girly-girl' traits:
giggly, waxed, tanned, bleached, dyed hair, dramatic, huffy, says 'I'm fine' when they aren't, reads Cosmopolitan, likes romance movies, unrealistic expectations, wants to be taken care of, pink is her favourite colour, takes a long time to get ready, cries easily, fashionista, divas, calorie counters, buys designer clothes, wears high heels they can't walk in, short skirts, push-up bras, make-up, made up, fake nails, yoga pant wearing, weak, hates bugs.
On second thought, I might not be girly. I rather like bugs.
Not saying I don't possess some of these characteristics. I like romance movies, even though I roll my eyes and mock them mercilessly, and I'll have you know my glasses are actually Armani! That's a designer brand! Also, I've been known to shave on occasion, not wax though, that shite hurts. Truth be told, I don't need a push-up bra, and cleavage up to my chin doesn't really sound appealing. Furthermore, I'm 5'9, high heels would be pointless as I'm already taller than most people and don't enjoy looking like an Amazon woman when I venture forth from my lair.
And, even though it's painful to even type out, I want to be taken care of. Just in a way that isn't controlling and makes me feel like I still have all my freedoms. I'm a Sagittarius, for crying out loud, we get panicked at any sign of restraints. Unless they are handcuffs, but this blog isn't about dirty things and I refuse to ramble on and deviate away from the point, which is...
I like pretty dresses. And painting my nails. I like clothes and bath products, candles and cute pictures of puppies. Shoppers Drug Mart is my favourite place to shop. I enjoy bubble baths, tea and cookies, and having my hair brushed out of my eyes by a dude. I cross my legs when I'm wearing a skirt. I have at least fifty pairs of underwear, and they're all cute. There's a lady garden between my legs and breasts upon my chest. And I like boys! Actually, I love boys!
So what if I say whatever's on my mind and have a mouth that'd make a sailor blush. It doesn't matter that I think shaving above my knee is a waste of time and who really cares if I'd rather be outside getting dirty than at the mall buying something cute and pink. Yes, I cut my own hair. No, I don't brush my hair, it's curly, there isn't a point. Yes, I pair my Converse shoes with everything, even dresses at weddings. No, I don't like sparkles, rhinestones or glittery things. Yes, I invest more time in my music collection than I do on making myself look presentable. No, I don't cry when I feel fat or if someone says something mean to me. Yes, I like ATVs and dirt-bikes and boats. No, I don't give a flying feck what's 'in vogue'. Yes, I will say anything to get a laugh. And no, I'm not overly-emotional, dramatic, or need to be doted on. But these things don't change the fact that I'm a girl, a woman, a lady. They don't make me a boy. They just make me a different sort of girl. And I suspect there's more than a few of us out there.
In the end, I might not be girly, at least not what the stereotype is, but I am feminine. There's a soft side here. A gentle side. A side that wants to feel protected, look pretty, smell sweet, get swept up in a whirlwind romance, and be seen as tender and nurturing. But I guess I do a fantastic job of hiding her away. And maybe that's my fault. But I'm pretty sure I can blame my childhood and parents or chalk this up to my fear of being vulnerable and exposed. (Just kidding) ((or am I?))
Either way, non-girly-girls should unite. And prove that just because we have grass stains on our knees doesn't mean we don't giggle from time-to-time.