I am trying to gain a new perspective. By this I mean, I am trying to be nicer to my body, I am trying to read more, I am trying to soften my soul. I am trying to be a woman for the sake of being a woman. I wear skimpy lingerie underneath my t-shirt dress even though I am not taking anyone home. I color in my lips with a lusty red because it makes me feel lioness, in control, resilient (not because I want the person who is kissing me to fall madly in love). I don’t sit cross-legged at the bar; instead I sit Indian style and order a gin and tonic, light on the ice with extra lime. “You sure you don’t want something a little fruitier?” the bartender will ask. No sir, underneath this femme fatale is someone who is just trying to get a good nights sleep so, please, just give me what I asked for and I’ll be on my way.
Women are labeled as a number of different things such as needy, psychotic, slutty, and unintelligent. We apparently wait by the phone too much and inspect the sink for another girls hair because “all men are the same.” We supposedly are dark and twisty and try to make everything seem romantic because being alone is a metaphor, right? The angle at which we take a picture is the most important aspect of the night because I swear to god if my arms look fat I will cause a scene. If our bodies are too skinny, who will want us? If our bodies are too curvy, who will want us? Weird.
I didn’t write this article out of an act of feminism or because the new trend is sticking up for women’s rights. I wrote this article because so what if my skirt is a little too short? So what if my knee-highs slip down and I forget to catch them? So what if I double text you? Triple text you? So what if I don’t know a single thing about politics? So what if my answer is wrong but I still want to justify it anyway? So what if I drink a beer and decide to dance by myself in the corner? I will spend the rest of my life grocery shopping in sweats and not brushing my hair. I will spend the rest of my life tripping in high heels and embracing nip slips. I learned that I don’t have to be someone with a cold soul and trust issues to be a real woman. I am soft, childish, and curious. So like I said, I am trying to gain a new perspective even when my shirt is a little too low and my collarbones are staring straight at you.
"When they think of girlhood they think of nicking ankles with disposable razors, failed attempts at dying her hair firecracker red and dusty, abandoned dollhouses. They think of fake tan, how one time a girl showed up to prom with bright orange skin and no one could stop talking about it for weeks. They tell us to cleanse, tone, moisturise. Rinse and repeat. In Cosmopolitan: “Here’s how to make his heart race.” Wax or laser. Cross your legs. Blush. Preen. Polish. Powder. Contour. Conceal. Shape. Highlight. When I think of girlhood I think of the way a nipple hardens under touch. I think of hot boxing by the river in your brother’s car, of a girl’s body like the wings of a butterfly extending on their hinge, the husk of a beetle, snake skin. I think of the suspense of waiting for your favorite band to come on stage, the air dense with electricity. I think of summer road trips. I think of how no one should underestimate us. I think of how I may wear the satin glove, but underneath lies an iron fist."
- Jessica Therese, When They Think Of Girlhood
