I’m gonna be honest. I am a girly-girl. I love shoes and I love purses. My recently purchased iPhone’s hard case is, in fact, hot pink (but that’s only because they didn’t have the white-and-gray one I wanted!). I often indulge in mani/pedi’s. I love puppies and well, dogs in general. Cute, small, furry dogs. I love them so much that if you ever walk down the street with me and we happen to walk passed a puppy/cute, small, furry dog, I will squeal with excitement in the most inappropriate and unorthodox way.
I could probably beat and squish my brain for some more examples to show just how girly I
really possibly am. But that would defeat the real purpose of this post. Outwardly, I resemble your typical often done up, somewhat materialistic looking, dangling-earring-wearing, bug-eye-sunglasses-sporting, bitch-on-wheels fashionista.
However, on the inside, I identify with the term “princess” about as much as Mother Theresa identified with the term “penis enlarger.”
Being the second (and last) born in the family (I have an older sister), my mother once told me that she, in fact, really did wish for me to be a boy (thanks, mom). Much to her surprise and probably disappointment, she got another (premature, teeny-tiny) girl. I really think that’s how it all got started.
Growing up, I didn’t really care for dolls or any girly toys. To say that I played with cars and trucks and toy guns all day long would be a lie, but I’d often play outside – run (like a maniac in circles most probably), climb trees, jump rope, and such. In grade school, I wanted to play soccer and basketball with the boys. Oh, and the group of girls in my class would often gang up on guys and beat them up. No joke, we were savages.
By the age of 10-11, and quite possibly overnight, I got boobs. Seriously, gut-wrenching embarrassment right there. My mother would basically drain my soul of any love I had for her when she’d openly chitchat with her BFFs right in front of me about my dreaded, newly found chest mounds.
Mom: “Can you believe the size of her BREASTS?! I know, me either! Already! Oh, they sure grow up fast…” (sad-face-side-head-movement)
*escapes awkward embrace, marches to room, slams door, buries head in pillow*
I pretty much wanted to kill her at the time, instead of really thanking her. (Although I don’t get my decent size from my mother’s side, but the woman did give me life, so whatever – thanks, mom.)
Sure enough, I’ve come a long way since then. I have come to not only embrace and value the mere existence of my boobs, but also use their magical powers (or their respectable magical size) in every possible advantageous situation. And there are plenty. (Ain’t that right, ladies?)
So, in a nutshell, I was a bit of a tomboy growing up. Until I got the boobs. Yup. Boobs robbed me of any chance of getting picked again to play soccer with the guys. I now had these ridiculous sacks of fat that flared around uncontrollably when I ran or did any cool, outdoorsy activity.
Since I wasn’t the only blessed boob child, all the girls soon starting acting like delicate little flowers. Seriously? I still wanted to beat the boys up when they would act-a-fool! Only now they’d try to cop a feel or pinch my ass, which I certainly didn’t appreciate and would only further make me want to kick the ever-living shit out of them even more.
But, just like the boob phase, I outgrew the no-good-useless-annoying-boys-are-punching-bags stage. Soon enough, I would find myself crushing and gushing over an older, cute and tall 7th grader. Like, hardcore. Fuck.
I seriously remember thinking:
“OK. Bobby, OMG, Bobby. Bobby (read: typical pretty boy nightmare). He’s just sooooooooooooooooooooo cute. I can’t help but doodle BOBBY all over my friggn notebook. BOBBBBBBY. OKOKOK. Mary and Jane (read: slutbags) are trying to talk to him. (read: flirt). Plus he’s kind of popular. OK, so he must know that he’s all that (read: an asshole). HE IS all that (read: a big asshole). Fuck it, I don’t care if he KNOWS that I THINK he’s all that because he must already KNOW he is all that. (read: totally fucked up overall logic that has probably beautifully set the pace of my overall fucked-upness.)”
True story. Even back then, I clearly didn’t give a shit.
Throughout the years, my overall attitude further solidified the idea that in order for me to really like someone, I had to (obviously) know the person first. I mean, REALLY know the person. Just because I would find a boy attractive and esthetically pleasing (read: hot, hot, hot), would not mean that I LIKED HIM. I generally began putting a lot of emphasis on physical attraction, but probably not enough into getting to know someone because for most of the time, boys didn’t really fascinate me. They bored me and besides my curiosity over how good our tongues could wrestle together or over how big their bulge in their pants could get – I didn’t find myself overly emotionally or mentally stimulated.
Needless to say, the notion of separating “sex” and “love” came in quite easily. I came to realize though that as sexual a person as I might be, in the end, sex just creates a void and doesn’t fill one. I came to realize that lust is just so damn easy, but LOVE IS FUCKING HARD.
But in my late teens and early twenties, I didn’t give a shit. I wanted to me the cool party girl who wasn’t going to talk about “feelings.” I wasn’t going to be needy or emotional. It didn’t suite me well. I wanted to be that girl at the bar, in high heels, armed with a vodka-cran in hand, who wouldn’t desperately try to find Mr. Right. Maybe Mr. Right Now. Or perhaps neither.
Women are emotional for one main reason – we’re nurturing. We want to cater, and coddle and make everything OK. Often times, all of these attributes are extremely externally driven. This means that we will bend ourselves backwards and cater and accommodate and pamper the man in our life. I am not the one to do that. Call me crazy, but I feel like I lose my head when I do this. Maybe I’m selfish; maybe I haven’t found the right person to do this for. Maybe I just really wasn’t blessed with the nurturing gene.
Although I really want to think that one day I will want children, when it comes to kids, I can only tolerate them in small dosages. Very small dosages. I do my best to avoid any family-friendly places, although it’s fucking almost impossible. (read: restaurants, malls, the movies, beaches, vacation resorts, etc.) Also, the thought of squeezing out of my vagina one of those little rugrats terrifies me to no end. But in all honesty, I’m more concerned about giving up my freedom (read: life) and embracing such an important, grown-up, parental role. Maybe I’m selfish; maybe I haven’t found the right person to do this with. Maybe I just really wasn’t blessed with the maternal gene.
On the other hand, men are less emotional for one main reason – they’re solvers. They know they need to profess, protect and provide. They’re thinkers and doers. What a woman will interpret as a “sign,” a man will have a totally logical, cerebral explanation.
Have you ever really listened in on a conversation between two women? It could be about the smallest, dumbest and most insignificant thing, ever. It usually goes something like this:
Female #1: “I’m so cold. BRRRR.”Female #2: “Omg, I know, me too! What the hell is up with the weather? Seriously. I can’t take it anymore. I wish I lived in Brazil sometimes.”Female #1: “I KNOW, me too! This weather sucks; it’s supposed to be nice and warm today. I just want to go somewhere warm, but Brazil is too far. I’d move to like, Florida. Omg, Pete’s parents’ third cousin’s girlfriend who I used to take Pilates classes with at Bally’s moved to Florida. You know how much I loooooove Pilates, right? Ugh, I am SO jealous of her! She was in such great shape, too – that bitch. She had such a good bubble butt!”
Two words: Verbal Diarrhea.
Same conversation between a woman and a man?
Female: “I’m so cold. BRRRR."Male: “Put your jacket on.” (hands jacket)
See? Problem solved.
Am I always this short in conversation and ALWAYS a problem-solver? No. Half engaging, stimulating, refreshing coversation? Yes, please. Overall, I just tend to gravitate towards straight-to-the-point-less-endless-mindless-making-my-ears-bleed fucking chatter. MY GOD.
Women are stupid sometimes when it comes to money, too. As much as I would love to own a pair of Christian Louboutin’s, I am not one of those crazy bitches who live on “plastic money.” I happen to have a fucking brain. (Plus, there was a time in college when I DID in fact live on “plastic money” and spent like I was Rockefeller’s daughter, but it was college and I felt entitled to having all sorts of ridiculous – mostly alcohol-induced – expensive, but fun escapades. Alas, I have learned my lesson since then.)
Oh, and (kinda besides the point, but whatever) do you know why most women would kill for a nice pair of Christian Louboutin’s? Because we all want to stand taller and sexier next to another insecure, stupid bitch, just to get an asshole’s attention. Yup, that’s my new-found theory. (OK, it could also be because the quality and design of the shoes is amazing.)
Other attributes that make me less than your average girly-girl? I have the mouth of a truck driver, I hate shopping, I’m allergic to chick flicks, I’m pretty handy around the house, nothing better to watch than a UFC fight, I rule in beer pong, free weights are my best friends at the gym and I refuse to do “girl” push-ups.