It’s a Girl!
Little girls are supposed to love baby dolls, and so I did. Well, except for the scary one, Baby First Step, who lurched like Frankenstein’s monster when she “walked” across the room. And then there was one that “ate” if you shoved a plastic spoon into its mouth, and its gears would make a horrible grinding noise while it worked its jaws, managing to convey both the menace and the surreal silliness of a Japanese horror movie monster.
My mother actually threw away one of my dolls after she spent a half an hour, desperate for sleep and not wanting me or my baby sister to wake up, crawling around my bedroom in the dark and trying to find its pacifier while it “cried” with all the delicacy of a smoke alarm.
I wasn’t so much into the baby dolls. They were kinda creepy and annoying.
I liked Barbie and her friends, though. I didn’t, however, treat them at all well. I wasn’t really into their clothes, and I kept losing their shoes, so mostly, when I wasn’t making up elaborate plot lines for them which I never bothered to enact since making up the story was all the fun, I would make them fly around naked (a special feat they could only perform with their legs twisted up in an unnatural position behind their heads. Also, I would conduct experiments on their hair.
I totally deserved it when my dog once threw up an intact Skipper head. At my feet.
My favorite color was blue—because my mom’s favorite color was blue, and I wanted to please her. I must have loved horses a lot, like girls are supposed to, because I had a whole shelf of china ones. Only I kept accidentally knocking them over to reach for books and breaking their delicate legs. And boy, did I love dressy dresses–there are so many pictures to prove it! Except my favorite outfit in the whole world was denim shorts and a sleeveless tee.
That was the outfit I was wearing the Best Day Ever, when it rained and rained and my dad let me run down to the giant mud puddle at the end of our cul de sac, where the road turned to dirt, and stomp my heart out.
Come to think of it, I dress much the same way now, except my boots are Tony Llamas instead of Wellies.
How young do we get ideas of who we’re supposed to be, what we’re supposed to like, what we’re supposed to do? If I’m any kind of statistical example, I knew all that stuff by the time I was two. Girly-girl it is! Except the stealth tomboy kept sneaking through.
And how old do we have to get before we remember who we really are? Before we peel back the layers and layers of social-even loving-conditioning and get to what’s real?
I am a girl. I love flippy little skirts and heels-and I love jeans and boots. I don’t like getting my hands dirty with soil, but I love drawing with charcoal. My favorite color is green, but only half a dozen very specific shades, and I like to pair it with Sunkist orange. I am a mom that tells her teenager dirty jokes, a partner who makes the most of her ample time alone, a coach who sometimes, but not often, tells her clients to “just stop it.”
Mostly, what I am is 100%, non-GMO, full-tilt-boogie me.
I actually have no idea whether I am meeting anyone’s expectations of me, because you know what? Most of the time, I kind of forget to worry about it.
Being you. I highly recommend it.
Oh, and that thing you’re doing that’s getting in the way of being you? Stop that, ’kay?