Learning to be a girl

I was out for something to eat with my good friend the other night (one of the four favs) and our waitress was this lovely, funny, spunky young girl who was not the Hollywood, so thin you want to tie her down and force a sandwich down her throat type and she was entertaining and clever and a soprano and suddenly I realized she was flirting quite handily with my dear friend. For a second, I was a bit jealous. Sort of a “hey, he’s my friend and you don’t know that we’re a couple so how dare you flirt with him” kinda thing. Then I had another realization – I was jealous of her flirt-ability. She did it effortlessly, knew how flash her eyes so he couldn’t look away, knew just how to lean on the table to emphasize her assets, knew just how to drop her voice to make him lean into her to listen to every word she said. Damn, she was good.

I realized that I have to learn how to be a girl. Tough for someone whose favorite outfit is 501’s, cowboy boots, a Sin City t-shirt and one of my collection of Rare Vintage men’s shirts.

I called my partner in crime, Zadra, to ask for help. We had a function for the theater tonight and I wanted to feel like a girl for a change. Now, I do own a couple of skirts. Unfortunately, I own nothing to go with those skirts. I have a couple of sexy tops but I’m a few pounds from those not looking like something on the back page of Glamour with a bar over my eyes. Zadra met me at Glendale Galleria and assisted me in sorting through the myriad of flimsy little tops and gauzy little things until she found this cute little green cami-type top. We both agreed it was just the girly thing I needed. And I could still wear the cowboy boots and the Vintage shirt.

But being a girl is so much more than that. And I think I somehow missed out on that training when I grew up. My sister was quite the girl growing up, always had some guy stringing along behind her. Her conquests are legion. Mine, not so much. She could turn the sex appeal on and leave men trembling in her wake. Me, not so much. I grew up surrounded by boys in my neighborhood (my sister wasn’t around much then, doing her own thing mostly). I learned how to climb trees and fire cap guns and outrun and out-skate any boy in the neighborhood. I played on the boys’ floor hockey team because the other girls were afraid of me. To this day, I’d almost rather hang out with a group of men and just short the shit than have to dress up and hang out with the girls and talk girl talk.

But every once in a while, I want someone to look at me the way my friend was looking at this waitress that night. He was not oogling her but merely appreciating her evident beauty and enjoying the harmless little flirt she was throwing at him. Mind you, I think he’s been getting a lot of that thrown at him lately but we’ll save that for another blog.

I, on the other hand, couldn’t throw a flirt if my life depended on it. I have never been coy and could never pull off the batting eyelashes and the hair toss. I’ve always preferred the direct approach. If you like me, you want to date me, you want to know more about me, ask me. Don’t make small talk. I suck at that. Just talk to me. Tell me what you think. That’s always been what I prefer. Not this game of body English and sidelong glances.



So, anyway, I put on my new girl-y shirt and my funky embroidered cords (which I love, by the way) and the Vintage shirt and headed off. I felt like a girl – for about 15 minutes. Then the shirt was pulling the wrong way and I became very aware of my own breasts. I couldn’t decide whether to leave the Vintage shirt on or off because I was also aware of the extra weight I’m still carrying and would love to drop. I constantly tugged at the stupid top all night, trying to get it to lay just the way it did when I tried it on and stood perfectly still and it sat perfectly. Didn’t do so much when I sat and shifted and actually moved around. By the time I got home, I couldn’t wait to get it off and I am unsure whether that shirt will ever see the light of day again.

Maybe some of us are just not cut out to be girls. Maybe we’re meant to be the friend, the one the guys will hang out with when they don’t have the flirty girl around. Maybe we’re the ones who are there to fill time until the women of their dreams comes along. We’re the confidante, the comfortable companion but will never be the one who is wooed or seduced, unless we do the wooing or seducing.

It also makes me realize that part of what I’m trying to figure out as I go through this third phase of my life is just exactly who I am. And maybe who I want to be. I was one person for the last 16 years and I’m not crazy about who that person was anymore. Now I have to find out who this person is that stands looking back at me from the mirror. Is she a flirt? Is she a tomboy? Is she smart, funny, clever? Is she brave? Is she quiet? Is she even someone that I want to be?

I’m hoping as I see myself reflected in the eyes of my friends and as I begin to understand a bit more of myself through my therapist and I find out what made me the person I didn’t like for 16 years, that maybe I’ll begin to put together the pieces of me that will finally form the person I want to be – whoever she is.