*I wrote this a while back, and just decided to share it.
I’m not girly. Neither am I anyone’s idea of a tom boy. I think I’m probably viewed as a slob. I don’t think I have to be a certain way just because I was born with a vagina.
I don’t wear make-up.
At first, in those cringeworthy middle school days, it was because I’d discovered a love for reading, and I thought I couldn’t be worried about the way I looked if I was going to be the smart girl with her nose always in a book. That, and by then, my vision was to the point where I was completely dependent on my glasses and applying my own make-up would’ve been difficult. Someone would’ve always had to do it for me, or I would’ve had to get one of those magnifying mirrors. This was before I knew how to do anything with the wild beast on my head, otherwise known as curly hair, so I pretty much figured I was a lost cause anyway. I was never going to be the pretty one. I was going to be the smart one, then.
After getting iLASIK in 2015, I thought about learning how to do make-up, and nixed it. I was never going to make a habit of wearing it, so may as well just let someone else do it for those rare special occasions. I compensate on keeping my face clean and clear.
Or a lot of clothing made for females.
I was the smart girl with her nose in a book, in a comfortable, oversized graphic tee and jeans. I go through stages where I want girly clothing, and then once I have a noticeable lack of tees, I go back to just wanting to be comfortable. It seems that when I go girly, I regret it. I don’t regret my men’s 2X Dresden Files shirts, or my men’s size blue Converse, or my pop art style Star Wars comforter. But it always seems like being girly is too much work. That, and it’s just easier to shop in the men’s section. Being a big girl, I can grab an extra-large shirt off the rack and know it’ll fit even without trying it on, knowing it won’t cling to every bunch and bulge I have rather than grab a pretty shirt from the women’s section and everything I try on looks bad on me. It’s a personal victory for me when every article of clothing I’m wearing on a given was bought in the women’s section.
My hair’s never fixed.
I have naturally curly hair. Growing up, we didn’t know what to do with it. So, on top of being the girl with no make-up, glasses, face in a book anyway, and poor fashion sense, I was also the girl with the frizzy hair. Thanks to Google and Pinterest, I have some clues to keep it healthy now, but the thing about curly hair is that it has its own personality.
Personally, I like my wild-child curls, so long as it doesn’t go into pyramid shape. I don’t straighten or relax it. Like my skin, I just keep it healthy and spend a fortune on proper hair care products.
At my previous retail job, I once rang up a $7 mascara, and struggled to keep my jaw from hitting the floor, thinking “good thing I don’t wear make-up, because I can’t afford it.” That same day, I went home and made a $40+ Sally’s order for hair products. I can’t spend that kind of money on hair care and make-up. I choose healthy hair.
All of this is made worse by the fact I work at a feed and hardware store—and don’t get much special treatment from the guys.
When a woman or an old man who can’t do it anymore remarks that I’m strong because I can throw six 50-pound bags of feed into the bed of a truck or the trunk of a car, I want to respond with, “Feminism, bitch!” Instead, because that’s not professional, I say, “I wouldn’t be working here if I couldn’t do it.”
Since men and women are anatomically different, and men naturally do carry more muscle, there are things I struggle with that my male coworkers can do without effort. These guys don’t appear to have much more muscle than I do. I am only 5’3, and most of my coworkers aren’t much taller than I am. That being said, being short with proportionally short arms is a bigger hindrance than lack of muscle. It can be the lightest box in the world, but if I can’t get my arms around it, it creates a problem.
My coworkers are largely forward-thinking males. Once, when one of the female managers, who is about my height and maybe only half my weight, was trying to shift a pallet full of dog food into a tight spot, the 6-foot-plus male store manager walked right by and said he was all for women’s lib, equal pay for equal work. In other words, unless she actually asked for help, and wasn’t visibly struggling too much, he wasn’t going to help her. She didn’t need the help anyway.
Feminism, bitch! We make fun of the people who say they would prefer a man to help them. “It’s not a woman’s place. They belong at home.” “Let a fella handle it.” “My husband would never allow me to pick up something so heavy.” Well, this girl doesn’t have a husband to do that sort of thing. I have to work.
Now, on truck days when I’m doing freight with the guys, I have to get up at 4am, to be at work for 5am. I live almost 30 minutes from work and love my snooze button. I’d rather sleep in a little than worry about lip gloss. When I do manage to leave my warm bed, I throw on a comfortable pair of jeans and a clean tee that fits well, because I have to wear a vest over it anyway. Once I make it to the bathroom for my morning hygiene, I put my hair into a loose bun because it probably didn’t set right the night before and as long as there’s more curls than frizz, I’ll consider it a good hair day.
I’m a woman. I like chocolate and romance books and boxed wine. But appearing girly, for me, is more trouble than it’s worth. Both out in the personal life, where comfort is more important than appearance, and in my work life where it’s simply not practical, being “girly” is not for me.
seize the twenties 