Somewhere along the way, I convinced myself that the stereotypical desires of a girl were too, well stereotypical for me. If you listen to any conversation long enough you’ll be left with the impression that girls are crazy, emotionally unstable creatures who are too busy gossiping and applying make-up to actually be taken seriously. That wasn’t going to be me. With a few simple rules, I’d avoid this plagued path to womanhood and live a life full of self-respect and meaningful relationships. I’d figured that anything pink should be sworn off (mind you, fuchsia was an acceptable color). Clothes with ruffles were highly forbidden, actually anything with ruffles were to be avoided completely. Additionally, I’d have myself tarred and feathered if I so much as shed a tear during a chick flick. In fact, chick flicks were straight up prohibited. Now don’t get me wrong, I was no tomboy. In fact, I enjoyed painting my nails and admiring my shoe collection as much as any girl, but I’d somehow brainwashed myself into believing this endeavor in becoming the ungirliest woman to sashay this city would make me more of a commodity. Better yet, the advantage of being a well-dressed girl who could relate best with guys was insurmountable. Either way, my identity became the girl who was ‘one of the guys’. I lived for proving that I was different…if another girl thought it, I wouldn’t. And you know what? I was good at it.
I became the girl other girls went to for advice on what their man was thinking, and to my credit I think I was pretty spot on. After pushing my natural-born femininity to the side, I actually started to think like a guy. I’d even gone as far as believing I was commitment-phobic (which coincidentally, had felt earned me bragging rights with my girlfriends). I’d drive a black SUV and be fully capable of parallel parking it, without guidance. I’d follow sports, watch SPIKE TV, and avoid weddings at all costs. Soon enough I found that relating with my girlfriends was a task not so well accomplished by me. Their reasoning baffled me, and it seemed small insignificant details were never-ending in their day-to-day stories. It also made little sense to me that they’d want to chat on the phone about nothing in particular. Why would I want to pay hard earned cash for minutes wasted talking about nothing? Regardless, as the years passed the more accustomed to thinking like a guy I became. Unfortunately, somewhere in my undertaking I’d failed to account for where this mentality would actually land me.
After so long, it felt like a part of me was missing. Logically, I should have been living an enjoyable life, not an emotionally exhausting one. After all, most guys appear happy with themselves, even carefree. So why then, did all these fussy, softhearted, wedding-loving, chick-flick watching girls seem more fulfilled than I was? Where had I gone wrong? It was this pivotal moment that started to turn my world for a spin. I started having flashbacks of me as a little girl when I loved pretty flowers and butterflies. I’d fantasized for hours about what my first kiss would be like (I was sure in for a sloppy surprise), and that special day when I’d wear my beautiful lily-white dress and look like a princess. I remember playing dress up with my mom’s clothes, pink ruffles and all. I loved ponies, was scared of bugs, and daydreamed about my true prince charming. Why had I neglected the desires of my heart for so long? Was I that afraid of having my dreams squashed that I tried believing I’d never cared in the first place? I wondered how many enjoyable moments I let pass me by while I convinced myself that liking anything soft and fluffy meant I was weak and misguided. I surely wasn’t prepared for this epiphany, but I’d try to take it on anyway. At least I knew one thing for sure-I wasn’t happy pretending to be someone that I wasn’t. So what next, then?
I’d have to start with some simple basics; I didn’t want to become shell-shocked while entertaining all things girly. I slowly integrated my long lost love of flowers and picnics. I traded my rather not-so-enjoyable bottle of beer for a strawberry margarita, pretty umbrella not to be forgotten. I started embracing the fashionista in me, choosing dresses over jeans and peep-toe heels over flip-flops. I’d even watch TLC every now and again. Shortly I was on the road to living a girl’s life, swooning over baby ducklings and all.
I was used to friends and family trying to bait me with girl talk, but to see the look on my sister’s face when I actually bit was priceless. I indulged her with details of wedding color schemes and favorite flower picks. Once she could lift her jaw off the floor, she called my mom in to experience this phenomenon of girl-time with me. It wasn’t long before we were flipping through magazines, discussing high hopes of our big day, first home and the joys of pregnancy. It was all I could do to keep from smiling. All this dreaming didn’t make me sad. It didn’t make me worry about being let down, left out or forgotten. I didn’t even flinch at the idea of jinxing myself. Allowing myself to confess the true desires of my heart only gave me hope! No longer do I need to ban pastel pinks from my wardrobe, or flip the channel when a chick flick sprawls itself on our television screen. I can grab a box of tissues, nibble on some chocolate and let my dreams take flight.
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