edge of the continent

When I was younger I cringed at the thought of wearing makeup and heels and generally dressing “like a girl”. I spent my adolescence decked out in an androgynous mixture of oversized t-shirts and loose jeans, convinced that donning all that “girl stuff” and drawing attention to one’s body somehow sucked all of the intelligence, independence, and common sense out of a woman and left an insipid, guy-fawning dolt in her place.

But a few years ago I had something of a change of heart when I found myself questioning my perceptions of my own femininity: I concluded that I felt my most feminine when I am strong and filled with a confidence in my intelligence, a belief in my abilities, and a loving acceptance of the body that houses it all. And I discovered that I can feel just as strong wearing lipstick and a pencil skirt as I do walking around in my jeans and lace-up boots, and that these choices — my choices — need not detract from the very things that make me strong.

I’ve been thinking about this shift in my self-perception since arriving at the office this morning when a friend complimented my outfit and went on to say that I am such a girlie-girl. I had to grin. And I didn’t cringe.

This morning I walked out to my car to go to work and found myself staring at a flat. Bah. I immediately called my dad and he kindly pointed out that my owner’s manual should have instructions on how to take care of such a situation… which was really not what I wanted to hear. I’m ashamed to admit that I literally sat there for five minutes asking myself if it was really necessary for me to even go to work before finally acknowledging just how ridiculous I sounded. It’s not that I didn’t want to change it, nor was it an issue of not wanting to learn how to do it (it’s been on my “to do” list since learning how to drive); instead, I found myself balking at the idea of potentially mangling my car due to my ignorance of most things vehicular and in the process making an ass of myself in front of my none-too-helpful neighbors. (Why do I care? I don’t even know them.)

I studied my owner’s manual carefully — the steps were so straight-forward — then went back to the car and was all business, dress pants be damned. Fifteen minutes later I had my dinky spare firmly attached to the car and was none the worse for wear, although my manicure was ruined. But what a high! I don’t want to immediately run to someone else to handle my Monday-morning glitches; I am not anti-help at all, but I am very much pro-self-reliance. I confess that it would have been nice to have had someone who would offer to handle the matter because they care for me so, but nothing was sweeter than the satisfaction I felt at being able to successfully handle it on my own.

Things I am grateful for: owner’s manuals, toolkits/jacks that come with the car, and my ability to follow written directions.

Oh, and Daniele posted my happy list!

I don’t want to remain in any one place (be it a city or a job or a relationship) simply because it is familiar and comfortable, whereas everything else is unknown and maybe just a little bit scary at first. Conversely, I do not want to abandon any one place as an act of running away from this or that. Are my reasons for staying justified, or am I merely making excuses and holding myself back?

I put the relationship behind me years ago: I dealt with it, learned from it, forgave him, forgave myself. I expected neither an explanation nor an apology from him — I haven’t even thought about it — but I admit that it was mildly gratifying to hear him say “I’m sorry for hurting you.”

He told me that of all the wrongs he has done, his treatment of me and of our relationship stands out as the worst. The most important aspect of our relationship was our friendship, and he wanted me to know just how sorry he was for disrespecting that friendship with the bonehead decisions he made. No matter the problems we may have been experiencing, he knows that I did not deserve to be treated that way.

He had been wanting to tell me this for years, so I allowed him to have his say. We had an honest discussion about what happened between us and then chatted and caught up on our lives until 2 a.m. I had almost forgotten the relaxing, easy comfort of our conversations — I was reminded of our high school days when we would roam the streets of our sleepy beach town, talking and joking and laughing a meandering path under sodium streetlights.

It felt good. I’m really glad I called him.

Note to Veronica: You are correct :)