Give me a once over and tomboy is never the first word that comes to mind. Nor am I claiming to be one or saying that I am deeply in touch with my masculine side. Manly I may not be but there are certain feminine traits and ‘womanly’ skills of which I am bereft. I may own more dresses than pants, not leave the house most days without wearing eye makeup and have three or more unnecessary beauty products but I think I would fail at being a true girly girl or housewife.
As I write this I take note of my nails. Today is October 7th. On August 5th I attended a wedding. The morning of the nuptials I had a very basic manicure. Nails washed and buffed, filed and clipped and then painted in gold. Probably the most care and attention they had seen in years. My own form of nail care usually consists of letting them grow long, biting them back down to size and using some kind of sharp object to dig out dirt. Classy. But back to the manicure. For one week my nails were perfect. And then the polish slowly began to chip away. Now most normal girls would probably delve into their nail kit (for of all those weird looking metal tools that look like they were used in Ancient Egypt to remove brains) and remove the mess from their fingers. I prefer the slow decay approach. My nails still have blotches of gold on them. I’m going for the world record! Or testing a scientific hypothesis. How long can nail polish last before it finally withers away? Watch this space.
Another thing I just can’t resign myself too is watching rom coms. It is the most unsatisfying kind of movie going there is. There’s a guy. There’s a girl. Guy/girl has sex addiction/disease/former emotionally scarring experience/fear of commitment/bifocals that prevents them from entering a lasting relationship. Until, that is, they meet their romantic lead. A series of montages involving laughter, and spinning, quirky dating activities and hand touching, and glasses/clothes removing ensues. Over time they think screw my sex addiction, to hell with the past, oh what a fool I’ve been! The one that I love and shall make babies with is there right in front of me. But there’s a secret, secret is revealed, love interest is shocked and hurt, love of life leaves, won’t answer phone calls, changes Facebook status to “its complicated”. At this point I scream at the screen. Idiot! You’ll get him/her back. Us simple minded audience members need the emotional closure. Haven’t you ever seen a romantic movie before? It always works out. Just like real life.
And just in case anyone had romantic notions about me in mind, be warned! I would make a terrible wife/mother. I can’t sew. Or knit. Or do any kind of crafty thing like make retro video game pillows or weave friendship bracelets from organic cotton. My cooking repertoire extends to epic salads, decent sandwiches, simple pasta and heating and stirring. My children would be ill clad, have scurvy and long, dirty nails. (Yet a fine appreciation for nouvelle vague French cinema). If I had to host a dinner party I would look fabulous but be serving canned French onion soup, overcooked pasta and fruit salad in mismatched bowls.
I carry around the contents of my life in canvas bags. They’re cavernous, impractical and get dirty very easily. Yet even if I could afford it I would never trade them for a Chanel or Louis Vuitton purse. It just doesn’t make sense to me. Why I would spend my hard earned money on a statement? I’m sure contained within these are tools required to handle any womergency. Like female MacGyvers these Fendi toting females are able to whip out straighteners, hairspray and bobby pins. Tweezers, clippers, and floss. Needles, thread, vodka, strapless bras, panty house and Kleenex (for drunken peeing or crying. Or both). In my bag I have a wallet, a phone, keys and Burt’s Bees. The only girl crisis I’ll be solving is chapped lips.
I suppose then I should consider myself lucky that I live in a society where I can be whatever kind of woman I want to be. That I can express myself how I choose. Wear a dress yet not know how to French braid. Never wear sneakers in public but have 3 year old undies on underneath my clothes. I have the choice to be pretty much whoever I want to be. And that’s better than any Hollywood happy ending.