I’m a mess. You know that, right? Anyway, when I haven’t been getting lost in the middle of unknown territory or engaging in other kinds of shenanigans, I’ve been having these periods of self-reflection. During these times, I get nice and silent, and I sit up in my thinking chair and think… think… think…
Wait, that’s Blue. She wouldn’t appreciate me jacking her thinking song.
So, where was I? Ahh, yes… the thinking. Since I have a lot of time on my hands, I’ve been offering this time for figuring out some things. Things about myself I like, things about myself I don’t like, things about myself that I just “meh!” about… plenty of things fall into that last category. Most recently, though, I finally came to this conclusion:
I am a “different” girl.
What, pray tell, do I mean by that? I’ve just noticed, that in the time it’s taken me to reach a quarter century of living, Beez has not been taught some of the finer points of femininity. Let’s be honest though… Beez hasn’t been really checking for it all too much, either. Blame my older sister (that doesn’t exist).
I’m so backwards, y’all. I’d rather slip on a pair of custom Chuck Taylor’s than teeter-totter in 85 inch stilettos. Instead of talking about (well, for me, it’s more of listening) how men are crazy, stupid, blind, or whatever derogatory adjective you can find, I’d rather be playing Zelda. Instead of dressing up in frilly things that show off my best assets, I’d rather wear something comfortable, functional, and if it shows off anything, fine. If not, still fine. Apparently, that means I have so much to learn.
Mama Beez was pretty keen on keeping me covered and smothered until the years that would prove whether she drove me straight to #HoIsh or not. Her goal was to keep me sans child during my teenage years. Turns out, when unleashed to the world, I wasn’t all that bad. By then, I decided that khakis and polos weren’t all that bad, and for certain occasions, you had to about beat me to wear a dress. Even now the only ‘make up’ I wear is lip gloss, and that’s only because of the functionality it provides. Smithers (if he had a blog… we’re working on it) could tell you about the time I freaked out in a dressing room trying to find something ‘womanly’ for my college graduation. That ranks in my ‘worst moments ever’ list after being lost in Chicago, being lost in Tokyo, being stuck in Chicago, and that one day I overslept and the world kept going on…
I’ve never liked shopping much, at least for myself. If I’m not doing it online, I don’t have the patience for it. I only shop when I need to, meaning “Oh, my pants have a hole in it. Time for new jeans.” Figuring color combinations, cuts, and figuring out whether I have to pay for a garment then pay someone to make it fit me right… these things set a fear in me that could rival the fear one has of flying, heights, fire, or Richard Simmons. I hate the redundancy of trying on things multiple times. I abhor the strategy of looking online first, then showing up to the store only to find out that your *insert product here* was sold. Add to that the prospect of doing it alone (which I dislike) or doing it with someone who’s overly enthusiastic about seeing your legs in a dress (which I may dislike more), and heck, you’ll see why I’d rather stay home. Simply put, retail therapy would send me to the nut house.
I’ve had some success here and there with my dabbling in girly things. I bought a couple of dresses for recent events that didn’t look like potato sacks. I do (try to) keep up on the eyebrow maintenance– times is hard, and my tweeze hand isn’t the strongest, but I’m working on it. Every once in a while, I’ll even wear eyeliner or gloss. I’ve been trying to work on some kind of daily ‘look,’ but my life and its inconsistencies play a huge part in that.
Where does this come from? Honestly, I don’t know. I don’t like spending money I don’t have on things I won’t continue. I don’t have a network of girlyfolk who swap and trade things they don’t like (do y’all do this? If not, you should- saves throwing it away!). I think I need a mentor. In girl-ness. Someone to teach me to walk in heels I probably will never wear, pluck things I’ve never plucked, and get excited for things that previously ground my gears. Show me colors that work with me. Explain what ‘warm’ and ‘cool’ mean. Keep in mind, you’re going to need to not make this feel like boot camp. Loving the heck out of me is appreciated, yet unnecessary.
Is Fran Drescher busy? I’ve always wanted her to be my play aunt, and maybe she could teach me things. At least when she blathers on about Mr. Sheffield, it’s endearing. And short. I guess we could say it’s high time for a makeover. One step at a time.
My mind is everywhere, friends. Keep me in your thoughts.
Hugs and Sprinkles,