"One is not born, but rather becomes, a woman"'-Simone de Beauvoir
I was reading Caitlyn Moran's book on How to be a Woman, just the beginning. She talks about how at the age of 13 we begin to try to become women. This isn't a natural transition, as Simone de Beauvoir's quote claims, to some extent we have to fit ourselves into the image of women. The behavior of a "good woman," a "successful woman," a "wise" woman is learned and requires self supression. I don't mean suppression of sideburns, ear gauges, pubic mustaches, and identifying as a "stud," I mean something else, maybe the suppression of the desire to fight, to sulk, to be vindictive, to complain and be sad. The suppression of many things.
I'm a late comer in some ways to trying to be a woman, it is something that I find we reflect on intellectually, an unnatural shock to the system when we try to perform the art of being a good woman.
I remember naturally and emotionally reacting to twirling in a romantic haze to "All the Way to Reno," or "Imitation of Life," I remember a blue darkness of lustful mystery when listening to Interpol's "Obstacle 1." The realm of feminine fantasy, crushes, and the resentment of unrequited desire came to me easily as a teenager, in my "No Shirt No Shoes No Service" shirt mooning hazily with my Rio player that my brother gave me. I performed a bare display of adulthood walking home on a local road with the slip of a barely existent sidewalk, as if distance from family and being my own transportation affected an imitation of being myself by myself. I dreamed some abstract semblance of romance, some far facsimile of intercourse with the help of Interpol that didn't involve men or women, or crying to "Imitation of Life" imagining a 90s college rock high school or college experience set to a grunge bohemian autumn. Rap was energizing. The simple act of intercourse and the plastic dull imagining of prn was somewhat buzzkill to the red and blue scenes of Wong Kar Wai and the vague imaginings brought on by suggestive music and my ignorance of mechanics.
I didn't need self reflection or laborious thought to have romantic thoughts, then again, I didn't have to belabor thinking about being a more enticing woman of substance. High school had a different iron clad checkerboard structure entirely, the social strata of the cafeteria grew organically and had a mostly inflexible structure, like it often does. Of course girls had crushes, some girls had things and boyfriends and the exploration/dramatic gestures that come with it. (I find that long term relationships in high school both tied people down and confused them about the future, or set them into doomed high school sweetheart scenarios, I'm a great proponent of dreaming in high school, but not running a gauntlet of codependent scenarios.) The interplay of the romantic relationship was a far flung desirable alternative and likely without the dances and courtships of adulthood, also without the bitterness of being older in a patriarchal society. The mechanical act of intercourse or even wacking off was still somewhat disapproved of, thus we fetishized, pursued, focused more on the physical-romantic stuff. We didn't think we'd get to the dull "preserving a relationship part" and so didn't get the numerous dispiriting self help nonsense that takes up books.
What makes a better woman? A competitive woman? A, um, non gross woman? Some of my habits while in pursuit of important things like work, a passion, good restaurants, and fun in New York had to change to avoid killing each other. I find that when separated, the sexes fantasize about each other at a distance and formulate a picture not always correlated to reality. For example, thinking a woman is made of gauzy lingerie, sugar, spice and everything nice by observing the restaurant hostess or dating the bartender, both of whom have to take time to maintain themselves as an object of desire to keep up customers, might give one a rude awakening if they settle into more than intercourse with, say, me. I must not be the only one who is still settling into a makeup routine. Who dresses for work in a certain way and hasn't worked out a style yet, who has bodily functions. My own separation from many women has caused me to speculate how they hide all that.
My run in with understanding anything at all spoken of in B Jones was considerably delayed. In high school, I had a dreamy image of men I had a crush on, in college, I had intimate conversations with men I was friends with. I had as yet no need to discover dispiriting websites that detail women as pigs that must primp themselves on a "market" for selection of men, to be sweet and sassy, hadn't heard of the Mancession or of the rise of women, or the "why all the good men taken or gay" complaint. I barely observed my family at a remove. I had no need to make a case study of women "making it work." I didn't resent younger women, thinner women, Asian women, more primped women, women with longer hair.... or see men as uncompromising sexists who wanted to milk dates for their sex quotient, double standard holders who go halfsies on a Nathan's hot dog, who are "sexually hypocritical" but seek a woman who in 30 seconds they can recognize as their hot, sweet, fun, quiet, challenging wife.
It took me til my early 20s to formulate an image of men whose permutations were all negative and oppressive, the imperfect, hypocritical thing looking to level up indefinitely in exchange for his freedom, who lazily avoided giving me what I wanted, the take charge attitude in planning, the dating trial run (construed as a lazy notion of commitment, dating to see how it works), the somewhat romance, the effete hipster, the creepy undesirable, all looking to level up to the same Brooklyn Decker while claiming a host of unreliable traits in return for their ostensible "taking life as an oyster they'll eat raw" (challenging them, being strong, kind, and sweet, loving adventure, taking care of themselves), requesting none of the traits I had or was ever proud of. I began to try to fit myself to their mold, smart from their dismissal, and grouse that the mold exists. Despite the fact that I had a very specific type (Josh Radnor) whose own type was Kate Mara the thin, fabulous haired, damaged trendy bar hostess or Elizabeth Olsen the over young co-ed whose tight... ideas on life give them a new lease on life. Trying to mold myself to another's preferences has always led hilarious results that make me slouchier, more childish, and with more darting glances at strangers. Outside my romantic fantasy, trying to appeal to hipsters always yielded in disappointment partly due to the fact that I don't want to eat Humboldt Fog or sit around and don't look like a yoga or Zumba instructor.
Being unapologetically myself tends to work in the beginning, but my Diane Keaton-like predilection for black blazers, scarves, and boots starts to wear on men "biologically" disposed to dresses, heels, colors, and non insecure, young, long haired, skinny women. At the middle juncture of the relationship, my lack of ability to be a woman in the boudoir or living room starts to be found out, my lack of cleanliness, sometimes clothes are not folded but thrown on the floor, sometimes I procrastinate, sometimes I stand around in my coat when I get home, contemplating what I want to do. Sometimes spontaneous happenings happen before I can embark on a complicated primping routine. So don't show up at my house while I'm still in the shower, then observe how bad my skin is. The fact that I get bogged down in one style and one suite of clothes every year starts to wear and I'm not "dressing for the job." And so I feel that I have to revise my old standard ways, my uncomplicated, unwieldy habits. There are more bad habits than they know, and they want me to revise more than I can think of. So I come to think of what it means to be a good woman. A perfumed, comely woman. The kind who doesn't get chided. And the fact is, this transformation is good, it would do me good. Even my mom who used to eat raw eggs on the counter for breakfast and slivers of raw onion with salt had to learn how to make pastries and presentation dishes. How long can my refusal to bend be a point of strength? Until I start to be criticized for my laundry? For the fact that I never cook, but pay for food as pennance? The skills I tried to amass and look at to cheer myself up were never interpersonal or other-oriented, I'm not a good mediator, I'm not even a good team player. I'm not good at hosting people or making them feel comfortable, or at making men feel safe, which I'd like to do. I am good at entertaining and making children feel somewhat loved, but this is not a skill men want to hear about. I am a lot more naturally caring and flexible toward children because not being that way to them would violate my moral code. My skimpy moral code. Whose contents are: Nurture the minds and lives of children or get out of the way. Do not harm or obstruct others to the best of your ability. It didn't occur to me for years to emulate what men think women do, their intricate imaginings of what our upkeep must be, that we are such sweet, clean creatures who don't pee on the toilet seat. Because my image of what men required me didn't exceed fantasy or maybe what my male friends told me was so harsh (even when I felt strong romantic feelings for them) fell on deaf ears because they were in the same breath as saying "go blow a goat." And I had gained weight and became more sloppy and less feminine than I had in years. So I basked in their friendship, their intelligence, their ebullience, and our articulate intimacy. My adolescence was as beautiful, youthful, and spiritual as my imagination. My image of men hazy.
I landed into the world during a time where the "Mancession" and articles on women's rise/romantic dissatisfaction correlated with a lot of "Love the One Your With" sermonizing, rhapsodizing on commitment, establishing boundaries, saying "relationships are work," breakups that indicated a long standing relationship was crumbling, the engagements of people I knew marking them taking their relationship seriously and to the next level, a dull as toast time to enter the world of dating whose courtship was more codified than ever. I rapidly caught up to the everywoman heroines of lady fiction and the readers of "Why Men Marry Bitches" by observing current courtship rituals (the first date, the third date, the 30 second first impression, the bone just about anyone and commit to the perfect woman dichotomy, the hook ups, the lack of communication, the dating several women simultaneously) and being filled with 2 years worth of bitterness at the fact that men seem to be getting what they want, which is hollow to women and far from what they want. (These things meant nothing to me a couple years earlier, nor would I have set food on those the frisky-style advice blogs earlier for fear of being a stereotypical woman. When did I become the type of person to actually consider what a "retread" meant? Or internalizing and feeling irritated by the many "isolate and work on yourself before you go out into the market?" We are all works in progress.) Fighting to weigh down dating with heavier romantic significance seems to come with the price of reanimating some 50s rhetoric and expressions like "why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free." New Agers try to render this with a spiritual significance that I agree with, that sex aligns people and causes one to take a piece of the other such that you have the potential to harm yourself if you engage in such an alignment (of chakras) with another and just leave it to rest without meaning, to accumulate psychic baggage. It was better than the oxytocin explanation that doesn't affect all women. And it was not an entirely shame-based argument for "keeping it in your pants," it averred that sleeping with people and not forging a bond is "not good for the soul." I came to date in a rather sobering Return to Commitment time when seeing relationships as a contract between two people where burden should be shared equally was experiencing a renaissance. Where "work on yourself before you think you can complete another" took on particular resonance after the meaningless fumbling after the 60s revolution. Some of the shame was taken out of intercourse, but women were coming up short on the meaning they craved and finding themselves tugging against men who wanted to sleep with them and keep their freedom. Online dating was a fresh direct or craigslist ad like pitch in bullet points of what one is doing, what one is good at, and what they like. It was easy to browse through their pictures and resume quickly, one becomes a ware, the other scans like an HR rep looking for bullet points like 2 years' experience in ETL processing or Java, C++, PHP in the list of competencies. I tend to see myself as the ware more than the buyer. This is where I went wrong, but in such a scenario, women's assets are on display and seeing the other people's response as a barometer of your own desireability is a tempting and honest mistake. One is Fuji apples for sale at $3.99 a pound, but are they organic, are they local?
The moments I think of how to revise my ingrained habits of being a bit sloppy are when people whose judgment I care about will see and judge. I am a lot like an exposed scallop, easily cut to sensitivity by anyone's poke. Or perhaps an oyster. Theoretically, when you throw sand in the oyster, it begins to defensively coat it in layers of saliva so it doesn't scratch, until the grain of sand becomes a cultured pearl. I tend to set to work defensively coating the sand or grit of critical input, especially the variety that is not malicious, with my own saliva and others' reassurance until the sand is completely dissolved and the entire thing becomes a gobbet of saliva. And I continue to be an oyster without a pearl. Blunt criticism tends not to change me and I tend to go on with my cycle of mistakes. At rare times it does change me and I acquire a new cycle of mistakes. I don't know how anyone can effectively get me to culture a pearl. Nor anyone who would have the patience to coax one out of me. The fact is, the prospect of living with someone neater than me would mean changing those habits forever. My mom learned to clean when she had to, also to cook and to manage time when she had to work around a girl. I think children bend your inflexible will and habits to their schedule because you don't want to starve them and you want them to live and thrive. Children may bend your ugly inner traits too. Is the shaming stare of a man looking at a strategically arranged pile in your empty living room enough? He may not easily understand that you arranged the box, the router, and the coats strategically to make the living room less empty because it's without furniture.
I examine the multiple parts of how to become a better, more comely woman. Because they are the categorical components of another woman, hence I self reflect and reflect on the concept of a woman intellectually, rather than slowly becoming a better version of myself. I examine them now, I don't know how I slid by before, dressing like Juno, wearing sometimes the same clothes if I had an essay due, procrastinating on laundry, painting my own nails and that rarely, not always folding my clothes, not having a flattering haircut, wearing glasses, having crushes, resenting people. Men seem to have a mythical idea of a woman's preparations and ablutions, we sprinkle ourselves with fairy mist and salt, we shower three times a day and douche our armpits. We get our hair did every other week and are so much cleaner than men. I always believed that beautifully maintained women are high maintenance women, much of whose time and wherewithal goes into maintaining themselves and researching ways to preserve themselves. Women who listen, women who steer away from or steer around certain topics that cause unnecessary fights, that provide the food and necessaries when their men are grumpy or sick or rendered childish and sullen by some problem. Women who work to keep relationships going by staying fresh and avoiding pratfalls expertly, suggesting ideas that men take as their own, being light, fun, quiet, and never nagging. I'm not good at woman stuff, neither the self maintenance of makeup, hair, having a style, nor the being fun and agreeable, the cooking, the cleaning, the making a nurturing and agreeable home. I'm barely good at the personal abilities of being articulate, succeeding at a job, advancing my own life, making professors notice, interacting with children. My virtues are personal, not bullet poitns that make me a "ware" on a men's "market."
The truth is that my early 20s were dedicated to the first three dates, perceiving dating as a "market," picking those three outfits, moving from trying to form myself to them or please them to refusing to be molded and taking a stand. I resented perceiving myself as a "ware," I saw the preferences of the opposite sex with the clarity of bitter stereotype that exists for a reason, the opposite sex spoke in concise take downs that aren't wrong (as they tend to do), that maybe "off the market" 40 year olds who disdained them in their 20s would beg for the "nice guy" later.
Being inflexible only takes me so far. Time together, longer time, requires molding, change, variety, "keeping it fresh," which requires violating or stepping across my things that I don't like, wearing uncomfortable clothing, doing stuff I find silly and some degrading... but requesting stuff of men they might not like. The fact that I can't cook or clean or dress becomes a wear on them, the fact that I'm jealous, verbose, negative, judgmental, fond of risque jokes based on stereotypes. Not good at the molding and morphing that requires two people to flow through obstacles, but the clinging to the present that makes being fun and light and quiet in a way that only takes the moment into account impossible. Just what am I skating across?
The strong pull of outside validation. Of outside rejection. The very seeking of which is something that men ridicule as the sign of women with "issues," "sluts," "damaged goods," "the fat women who sit on the sidelines," etc. As if they don't seek a more outward looking version of the same thing.
Having the same ways of a "child" or someone who hasn't stepped into the routine performance of a "woman." Finding what works, what doesn't, but for sure having a daintier and more fastidious routine than our more and more feminine men. I haven't gone through the rituals of adulthood that women have done, when did playing with makeup become a varied spackling routine? Not that I ever played with it, but my routine is still not perfected.
The women, the perfectly beautiful, dewy, gracious, youthful women who deflect lots of unwanted attention gracefully are vulnerable and targets. Of masculine ego and hatred and spittle when their lust isn't fulfilled, they're vulnerable and fragile and out there with their come hither, quiet beauty with no one to protect them. Who wants to invite unwanted attention?
I was reading Caitlyn Moran's book on How to be a Woman, just the beginning. She talks about how at the age of 13 we begin to try to become women. This isn't a natural transition, as Simone de Beauvoir's quote claims, to some extent we have to fit ourselves into the image of women. The behavior of a "good woman," a "successful woman," a "wise" woman is learned and requires self supression. I don't mean suppression of sideburns, ear gauges, pubic mustaches, and identifying as a "stud," I mean something else, maybe the suppression of the desire to fight, to sulk, to be vindictive, to complain and be sad. The suppression of many things.
I'm a late comer in some ways to trying to be a woman, it is something that I find we reflect on intellectually, an unnatural shock to the system when we try to perform the art of being a good woman.
I remember naturally and emotionally reacting to twirling in a romantic haze to "All the Way to Reno," or "Imitation of Life," I remember a blue darkness of lustful mystery when listening to Interpol's "Obstacle 1." The realm of feminine fantasy, crushes, and the resentment of unrequited desire came to me easily as a teenager, in my "No Shirt No Shoes No Service" shirt mooning hazily with my Rio player that my brother gave me. I performed a bare display of adulthood walking home on a local road with the slip of a barely existent sidewalk, as if distance from family and being my own transportation affected an imitation of being myself by myself. I dreamed some abstract semblance of romance, some far facsimile of intercourse with the help of Interpol that didn't involve men or women, or crying to "Imitation of Life" imagining a 90s college rock high school or college experience set to a grunge bohemian autumn. Rap was energizing. The simple act of intercourse and the plastic dull imagining of prn was somewhat buzzkill to the red and blue scenes of Wong Kar Wai and the vague imaginings brought on by suggestive music and my ignorance of mechanics.
I didn't need self reflection or laborious thought to have romantic thoughts, then again, I didn't have to belabor thinking about being a more enticing woman of substance. High school had a different iron clad checkerboard structure entirely, the social strata of the cafeteria grew organically and had a mostly inflexible structure, like it often does. Of course girls had crushes, some girls had things and boyfriends and the exploration/dramatic gestures that come with it. (I find that long term relationships in high school both tied people down and confused them about the future, or set them into doomed high school sweetheart scenarios, I'm a great proponent of dreaming in high school, but not running a gauntlet of codependent scenarios.) The interplay of the romantic relationship was a far flung desirable alternative and likely without the dances and courtships of adulthood, also without the bitterness of being older in a patriarchal society. The mechanical act of intercourse or even wacking off was still somewhat disapproved of, thus we fetishized, pursued, focused more on the physical-romantic stuff. We didn't think we'd get to the dull "preserving a relationship part" and so didn't get the numerous dispiriting self help nonsense that takes up books.
What makes a better woman? A competitive woman? A, um, non gross woman? Some of my habits while in pursuit of important things like work, a passion, good restaurants, and fun in New York had to change to avoid killing each other. I find that when separated, the sexes fantasize about each other at a distance and formulate a picture not always correlated to reality. For example, thinking a woman is made of gauzy lingerie, sugar, spice and everything nice by observing the restaurant hostess or dating the bartender, both of whom have to take time to maintain themselves as an object of desire to keep up customers, might give one a rude awakening if they settle into more than intercourse with, say, me. I must not be the only one who is still settling into a makeup routine. Who dresses for work in a certain way and hasn't worked out a style yet, who has bodily functions. My own separation from many women has caused me to speculate how they hide all that.
My run in with understanding anything at all spoken of in B Jones was considerably delayed. In high school, I had a dreamy image of men I had a crush on, in college, I had intimate conversations with men I was friends with. I had as yet no need to discover dispiriting websites that detail women as pigs that must primp themselves on a "market" for selection of men, to be sweet and sassy, hadn't heard of the Mancession or of the rise of women, or the "why all the good men taken or gay" complaint. I barely observed my family at a remove. I had no need to make a case study of women "making it work." I didn't resent younger women, thinner women, Asian women, more primped women, women with longer hair.... or see men as uncompromising sexists who wanted to milk dates for their sex quotient, double standard holders who go halfsies on a Nathan's hot dog, who are "sexually hypocritical" but seek a woman who in 30 seconds they can recognize as their hot, sweet, fun, quiet, challenging wife.
It took me til my early 20s to formulate an image of men whose permutations were all negative and oppressive, the imperfect, hypocritical thing looking to level up indefinitely in exchange for his freedom, who lazily avoided giving me what I wanted, the take charge attitude in planning, the dating trial run (construed as a lazy notion of commitment, dating to see how it works), the somewhat romance, the effete hipster, the creepy undesirable, all looking to level up to the same Brooklyn Decker while claiming a host of unreliable traits in return for their ostensible "taking life as an oyster they'll eat raw" (challenging them, being strong, kind, and sweet, loving adventure, taking care of themselves), requesting none of the traits I had or was ever proud of. I began to try to fit myself to their mold, smart from their dismissal, and grouse that the mold exists. Despite the fact that I had a very specific type (Josh Radnor) whose own type was Kate Mara the thin, fabulous haired, damaged trendy bar hostess or Elizabeth Olsen the over young co-ed whose tight... ideas on life give them a new lease on life. Trying to mold myself to another's preferences has always led hilarious results that make me slouchier, more childish, and with more darting glances at strangers. Outside my romantic fantasy, trying to appeal to hipsters always yielded in disappointment partly due to the fact that I don't want to eat Humboldt Fog or sit around and don't look like a yoga or Zumba instructor.
Being unapologetically myself tends to work in the beginning, but my Diane Keaton-like predilection for black blazers, scarves, and boots starts to wear on men "biologically" disposed to dresses, heels, colors, and non insecure, young, long haired, skinny women. At the middle juncture of the relationship, my lack of ability to be a woman in the boudoir or living room starts to be found out, my lack of cleanliness, sometimes clothes are not folded but thrown on the floor, sometimes I procrastinate, sometimes I stand around in my coat when I get home, contemplating what I want to do. Sometimes spontaneous happenings happen before I can embark on a complicated primping routine. So don't show up at my house while I'm still in the shower, then observe how bad my skin is. The fact that I get bogged down in one style and one suite of clothes every year starts to wear and I'm not "dressing for the job." And so I feel that I have to revise my old standard ways, my uncomplicated, unwieldy habits. There are more bad habits than they know, and they want me to revise more than I can think of. So I come to think of what it means to be a good woman. A perfumed, comely woman. The kind who doesn't get chided. And the fact is, this transformation is good, it would do me good. Even my mom who used to eat raw eggs on the counter for breakfast and slivers of raw onion with salt had to learn how to make pastries and presentation dishes. How long can my refusal to bend be a point of strength? Until I start to be criticized for my laundry? For the fact that I never cook, but pay for food as pennance? The skills I tried to amass and look at to cheer myself up were never interpersonal or other-oriented, I'm not a good mediator, I'm not even a good team player. I'm not good at hosting people or making them feel comfortable, or at making men feel safe, which I'd like to do. I am good at entertaining and making children feel somewhat loved, but this is not a skill men want to hear about. I am a lot more naturally caring and flexible toward children because not being that way to them would violate my moral code. My skimpy moral code. Whose contents are: Nurture the minds and lives of children or get out of the way. Do not harm or obstruct others to the best of your ability. It didn't occur to me for years to emulate what men think women do, their intricate imaginings of what our upkeep must be, that we are such sweet, clean creatures who don't pee on the toilet seat. Because my image of what men required me didn't exceed fantasy or maybe what my male friends told me was so harsh (even when I felt strong romantic feelings for them) fell on deaf ears because they were in the same breath as saying "go blow a goat." And I had gained weight and became more sloppy and less feminine than I had in years. So I basked in their friendship, their intelligence, their ebullience, and our articulate intimacy. My adolescence was as beautiful, youthful, and spiritual as my imagination. My image of men hazy.
I landed into the world during a time where the "Mancession" and articles on women's rise/romantic dissatisfaction correlated with a lot of "Love the One Your With" sermonizing, rhapsodizing on commitment, establishing boundaries, saying "relationships are work," breakups that indicated a long standing relationship was crumbling, the engagements of people I knew marking them taking their relationship seriously and to the next level, a dull as toast time to enter the world of dating whose courtship was more codified than ever. I rapidly caught up to the everywoman heroines of lady fiction and the readers of "Why Men Marry Bitches" by observing current courtship rituals (the first date, the third date, the 30 second first impression, the bone just about anyone and commit to the perfect woman dichotomy, the hook ups, the lack of communication, the dating several women simultaneously) and being filled with 2 years worth of bitterness at the fact that men seem to be getting what they want, which is hollow to women and far from what they want. (These things meant nothing to me a couple years earlier, nor would I have set food on those the frisky-style advice blogs earlier for fear of being a stereotypical woman. When did I become the type of person to actually consider what a "retread" meant? Or internalizing and feeling irritated by the many "isolate and work on yourself before you go out into the market?" We are all works in progress.) Fighting to weigh down dating with heavier romantic significance seems to come with the price of reanimating some 50s rhetoric and expressions like "why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free." New Agers try to render this with a spiritual significance that I agree with, that sex aligns people and causes one to take a piece of the other such that you have the potential to harm yourself if you engage in such an alignment (of chakras) with another and just leave it to rest without meaning, to accumulate psychic baggage. It was better than the oxytocin explanation that doesn't affect all women. And it was not an entirely shame-based argument for "keeping it in your pants," it averred that sleeping with people and not forging a bond is "not good for the soul." I came to date in a rather sobering Return to Commitment time when seeing relationships as a contract between two people where burden should be shared equally was experiencing a renaissance. Where "work on yourself before you think you can complete another" took on particular resonance after the meaningless fumbling after the 60s revolution. Some of the shame was taken out of intercourse, but women were coming up short on the meaning they craved and finding themselves tugging against men who wanted to sleep with them and keep their freedom. Online dating was a fresh direct or craigslist ad like pitch in bullet points of what one is doing, what one is good at, and what they like. It was easy to browse through their pictures and resume quickly, one becomes a ware, the other scans like an HR rep looking for bullet points like 2 years' experience in ETL processing or Java, C++, PHP in the list of competencies. I tend to see myself as the ware more than the buyer. This is where I went wrong, but in such a scenario, women's assets are on display and seeing the other people's response as a barometer of your own desireability is a tempting and honest mistake. One is Fuji apples for sale at $3.99 a pound, but are they organic, are they local?
The moments I think of how to revise my ingrained habits of being a bit sloppy are when people whose judgment I care about will see and judge. I am a lot like an exposed scallop, easily cut to sensitivity by anyone's poke. Or perhaps an oyster. Theoretically, when you throw sand in the oyster, it begins to defensively coat it in layers of saliva so it doesn't scratch, until the grain of sand becomes a cultured pearl. I tend to set to work defensively coating the sand or grit of critical input, especially the variety that is not malicious, with my own saliva and others' reassurance until the sand is completely dissolved and the entire thing becomes a gobbet of saliva. And I continue to be an oyster without a pearl. Blunt criticism tends not to change me and I tend to go on with my cycle of mistakes. At rare times it does change me and I acquire a new cycle of mistakes. I don't know how anyone can effectively get me to culture a pearl. Nor anyone who would have the patience to coax one out of me. The fact is, the prospect of living with someone neater than me would mean changing those habits forever. My mom learned to clean when she had to, also to cook and to manage time when she had to work around a girl. I think children bend your inflexible will and habits to their schedule because you don't want to starve them and you want them to live and thrive. Children may bend your ugly inner traits too. Is the shaming stare of a man looking at a strategically arranged pile in your empty living room enough? He may not easily understand that you arranged the box, the router, and the coats strategically to make the living room less empty because it's without furniture.
I examine the multiple parts of how to become a better, more comely woman. Because they are the categorical components of another woman, hence I self reflect and reflect on the concept of a woman intellectually, rather than slowly becoming a better version of myself. I examine them now, I don't know how I slid by before, dressing like Juno, wearing sometimes the same clothes if I had an essay due, procrastinating on laundry, painting my own nails and that rarely, not always folding my clothes, not having a flattering haircut, wearing glasses, having crushes, resenting people. Men seem to have a mythical idea of a woman's preparations and ablutions, we sprinkle ourselves with fairy mist and salt, we shower three times a day and douche our armpits. We get our hair did every other week and are so much cleaner than men. I always believed that beautifully maintained women are high maintenance women, much of whose time and wherewithal goes into maintaining themselves and researching ways to preserve themselves. Women who listen, women who steer away from or steer around certain topics that cause unnecessary fights, that provide the food and necessaries when their men are grumpy or sick or rendered childish and sullen by some problem. Women who work to keep relationships going by staying fresh and avoiding pratfalls expertly, suggesting ideas that men take as their own, being light, fun, quiet, and never nagging. I'm not good at woman stuff, neither the self maintenance of makeup, hair, having a style, nor the being fun and agreeable, the cooking, the cleaning, the making a nurturing and agreeable home. I'm barely good at the personal abilities of being articulate, succeeding at a job, advancing my own life, making professors notice, interacting with children. My virtues are personal, not bullet poitns that make me a "ware" on a men's "market."
The truth is that my early 20s were dedicated to the first three dates, perceiving dating as a "market," picking those three outfits, moving from trying to form myself to them or please them to refusing to be molded and taking a stand. I resented perceiving myself as a "ware," I saw the preferences of the opposite sex with the clarity of bitter stereotype that exists for a reason, the opposite sex spoke in concise take downs that aren't wrong (as they tend to do), that maybe "off the market" 40 year olds who disdained them in their 20s would beg for the "nice guy" later.
Being inflexible only takes me so far. Time together, longer time, requires molding, change, variety, "keeping it fresh," which requires violating or stepping across my things that I don't like, wearing uncomfortable clothing, doing stuff I find silly and some degrading... but requesting stuff of men they might not like. The fact that I can't cook or clean or dress becomes a wear on them, the fact that I'm jealous, verbose, negative, judgmental, fond of risque jokes based on stereotypes. Not good at the molding and morphing that requires two people to flow through obstacles, but the clinging to the present that makes being fun and light and quiet in a way that only takes the moment into account impossible. Just what am I skating across?
The strong pull of outside validation. Of outside rejection. The very seeking of which is something that men ridicule as the sign of women with "issues," "sluts," "damaged goods," "the fat women who sit on the sidelines," etc. As if they don't seek a more outward looking version of the same thing.
Having the same ways of a "child" or someone who hasn't stepped into the routine performance of a "woman." Finding what works, what doesn't, but for sure having a daintier and more fastidious routine than our more and more feminine men. I haven't gone through the rituals of adulthood that women have done, when did playing with makeup become a varied spackling routine? Not that I ever played with it, but my routine is still not perfected.
The women, the perfectly beautiful, dewy, gracious, youthful women who deflect lots of unwanted attention gracefully are vulnerable and targets. Of masculine ego and hatred and spittle when their lust isn't fulfilled, they're vulnerable and fragile and out there with their come hither, quiet beauty with no one to protect them. Who wants to invite unwanted attention?
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