Saturday, April 3, 2010

Coming out of my shell

I’m not a girly girl.

My Mom had to practically duct tape dresses onto me when I was younger because I refused to succumb to princess-like attire. I played in mud, rode boys bikes, opted to play with boys instead of girls and when I did play with my girl friends, I coerced most of them to ride bikes with me and pretend we were Ponch & Baker from CHiPS. 

When I was 13 I threw a fit at my older sister’s wedding because I was forced to wear a poufy dress and wear lip-gloss.  Everyone thought I was crying because it was a happy occasion for my sister, little did they know my Mother scolded me just prior to walking down the aisle because I was being such a little pill.

I didn’t discover make-up until I was a sophomore in high school, and I wouldn't dare go near hairspray or perfume until I hit my senior year.  My grandpa used to cut my hair because he was a barber in the Army and it was my choice to wear short “boy” hair until I decided to try and grow it out come eighth grade.  Then I sported the ever so fabulous mullet complete with a perm due to my sister insisting I become her guinea pig while she was in Cosmetology school.  Not to mention the ‘Sally Jesse Raphael’ glasses that were ever so popular in the early 90’s.

I have come a long way from my awkward boyish teenage years, however I still would rather purchase my perfume and make-up online than endure the high-maintenance beauty consultants at Sephora or Macy’s. 

I don’t do Tupperware, candle, jewelry or sex-themed parties and my “girl’s nights” are few and far between – although I did venture out and get a pedicure and enjoy a 5000 calorie-per slice piece of cheesecake with my future sisters and mother in law the other night. 

I’m not sure where this prissy phobia came from, nor do I know how to fix it, but it is something that I apparently am missing out on.  I probably opted out of the “how to be a young lady” training that was supposed to happen during the most important years of my life, and I’m probably breaking all the rules when it comes to being a woman, but for the life of me, I simply cannot bring myself to be myself when it comes to hanging out with other women.  I’m like that awkward geek that the popular girls try to make over in movies, but instead of there being a happy ending they usually run out throwing their hands up in the air due to the whining and bitching that results on my part because I cannot bring myself to coo and ahh over lovey-dovey movies or nail polish.  What is wrong with me?

If given the option, I would rather go target shooting or play pool with the boys, and throw back a few beverages while sporting my tattered jeans and sloppy t-shirt.  If I don’t have to be anywhere, I’m usually in my sweats and slippers and prefer not to bother with hair, makeup or anything remotely taking up any of my time.  Luckily for me, I have a fiancé that is either too scared to mention anything to me about my appearance, or he simply loves me for who I am. 

So after spending the afternoon with a girlfriend of mine and her friends watching 80’s movies and eating crap, I’ve decided that I need to make more of an effort to do things such as that, given as painful as it is for me.  It’s absolutely foreign to me to be around women and only women because, well for one, I have the mouth of a sailor, I’m blunt and ridiculously opinionated and – well I don’t do the “girl” thing.  But I have to admit; I actually had a good time today. 

Granted, I’m not about to go out and do something dramatic like wear a dress or anything, but spending time with some good-hearted gals and absolutely no testosterone, was not as bad as I had anticipated.  Who knew? 

I’m a tomboy, and probably always will be, but I don’t mind “taking one for the team” on occasion and letting my inner “girl” come out. 

Baby steps.

1 comment:

  1. That's why I like you so much. You're like me, only with a vagina.


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