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Showing posts with label diary. Show all posts
Showing posts with label diary. Show all posts
Monday, June 1, 2009
"But You'd Look So Pretty If You Wore Makeup!"
I've been feeling very . . . attacked lately because of my gender and appearance. Quite honestly, I'm just not butch and I'm definitely not femme (dont' let those pictures at the top of the blog fool ya!). Much as I long to be one or the other or even the type of person who can wear each beautifully in turn, I'm always going to be slightly in the middle, never belonging fully to one camp and always borrowing bits and pieces from each. And I'm fairly okay with that. I'm being who I am.
But every once in a while someone does or says something that ticks me off, and this week they all seemed to happen at once, really weighing it on my mind and making me want to write them all down in a blog post. So, without further ado, here they are, after the jump:
* Going to get a new pair of glasses last week, the nice little old lady trying to pick out frames squinted at my face and said "I think maybe this time we should try something a little more feminine." I must have balked or made a face because she hastily amended "It's just that this pair is very unisex.", but the damage was already done. Feminine frames? Just what would that look like- pink and sparkly? Like a stubborn kid, I firmly set my jaw and determined to find the most masculine pair I could ("Do you have something in a hunter green, preferably with antlers?" . . . nah, just kidding). Luckily I went off and bought my glasses somewhere else, finding a couple of sylish new pairs that I feel good about, but the experience was a bit jarring to say the least.
* As we're watching some television, my dad spots some woman on the screen and asks, as he's wont to do, if she's a lesbian. He's always doing this, particularly if said lady is a bit butcher, and acts as though he's incredibly clever, to have connected masculine appearance with lesbianism. I have sighed so many times and Wikipedia'd the information, correcting him that no, said celebrity is married with three children, while he still raises his brow suspiciously. So he said it yet another time about some older actress I didn't know, and I bristled back with a "Why?", to which he responded "Well, she never wears any makeup!". That irked me to no end, and I instantly retorted "Neither do I!" (which, in retrospect, seems incredibly dangerous- that could have been one heck of an opener into a discussion about my sexual orientation). But his response instead was "Yeah, but you, like, paint your nails at least!". Correction- I paint my toenails red (never my fingernails, which are short, trim, and colorless, because I apparently am never careful enough with them for the polish to last prettily more than a day). I like it because that little splash of color makes me happy when I look at my piglets, and is far prettier in a pair of sandals than without. It's something I've done for forever, and it doesn't make me feel girly or feminine- quite the opposite, strong, flagrante, somehow. Not to mention I felt quite vindicated when I saw the quite butch Papi Cox of "In Search Of Wild Kingdom" with lovely red tonails, too. I didn't dare try to point all of this out to my papa- let him inhabit a world where painting your toenails makes you feminine and straight. But it still made me shake my head and sigh.
* Lately I've been working on growing out the hair on my head. I never style it (except to keep my relentless curly, wacky bangs in flatironed submission when they're really bad); it either hangs long around my face or is pulled back in a ponytail. I like it for a lot of reasons- I like the challenge of growing my hair out, of resisting to get it cut, of slowly watching it get longer and longer, and I love the way it feels (does that make me femme, to love running my hands through my hair?). I've always thought my long hair was a bit of a cover, a mainstream disguise. But yesterday a at a friend's party, my mother took a look at her pretty, short, elegantly styled hair and asked me why I didn't cut mine. I didn't take the time to remind her that my hair has been short before, layered, modeled after magazine pictures, and it never looks the way it did in those examples, because I don't style my hair- I want to wake up, brush, and go. I simply never want to have hair that makes you sadly say "No, no, roll up the car windows, I can't mess up my hair.". I didn't stop to tell her that cutting my hair like Bethany's wouldn't make me look like her- feminine, elegant, pretty, womanly. I didn't stop to point out that short, unstyled hair, compounded by my clothes, my weight, and my attitude, would only serve to scream "Dyke! Huge dyke!". I simply smiled and told her I was growing it out.
* A few days ago at work, the new secretary, decked out in hot pink, looked at me and asked if I was wearing pink eyeshadow (she was seeing her own outfit reflected in my glasses). I said no, and she went on to comment "But you would look really good if you ever decided to start wearing makeup!". I must have made another one of those faces, the surprised and disturbed ones that I can't even help, because she quickly threw in there: "I mean, it's okay- I didn't start wearing makeup unti I was 24." I nodded and fake smiled, but I'm sure she knew the damage was done. I just get so, so tired of people assuming that I don't know what makeup is. I'm sure they're picturing me rummaging through their handbags cavewoman-style grunting "What this tube red stuff?". Just because I don't wear makeup does not mean that I am in need of a makeover, that I am ignorant about that sort of thing. It's a choice, not a default. I recognize that if I took the time and effort, I could be more feminine, more "beautiful", and I wish more people would see my not doing that as a conscious choice, and stop trying to "save me from myself".
So yeah, that's it. It's not a lot, but somehow, coming one right after another, just seemed to compound the message being thrown at me- be more feminine!- and I feel chafed, caught in-between, even less able to reject these messages than if I were full-out butch. It sucks, to say the least :(.
But every once in a while someone does or says something that ticks me off, and this week they all seemed to happen at once, really weighing it on my mind and making me want to write them all down in a blog post. So, without further ado, here they are, after the jump:
* Going to get a new pair of glasses last week, the nice little old lady trying to pick out frames squinted at my face and said "I think maybe this time we should try something a little more feminine." I must have balked or made a face because she hastily amended "It's just that this pair is very unisex.", but the damage was already done. Feminine frames? Just what would that look like- pink and sparkly? Like a stubborn kid, I firmly set my jaw and determined to find the most masculine pair I could ("Do you have something in a hunter green, preferably with antlers?" . . . nah, just kidding). Luckily I went off and bought my glasses somewhere else, finding a couple of sylish new pairs that I feel good about, but the experience was a bit jarring to say the least.
* As we're watching some television, my dad spots some woman on the screen and asks, as he's wont to do, if she's a lesbian. He's always doing this, particularly if said lady is a bit butcher, and acts as though he's incredibly clever, to have connected masculine appearance with lesbianism. I have sighed so many times and Wikipedia'd the information, correcting him that no, said celebrity is married with three children, while he still raises his brow suspiciously. So he said it yet another time about some older actress I didn't know, and I bristled back with a "Why?", to which he responded "Well, she never wears any makeup!". That irked me to no end, and I instantly retorted "Neither do I!" (which, in retrospect, seems incredibly dangerous- that could have been one heck of an opener into a discussion about my sexual orientation). But his response instead was "Yeah, but you, like, paint your nails at least!". Correction- I paint my toenails red (never my fingernails, which are short, trim, and colorless, because I apparently am never careful enough with them for the polish to last prettily more than a day). I like it because that little splash of color makes me happy when I look at my piglets, and is far prettier in a pair of sandals than without. It's something I've done for forever, and it doesn't make me feel girly or feminine- quite the opposite, strong, flagrante, somehow. Not to mention I felt quite vindicated when I saw the quite butch Papi Cox of "In Search Of Wild Kingdom" with lovely red tonails, too. I didn't dare try to point all of this out to my papa- let him inhabit a world where painting your toenails makes you feminine and straight. But it still made me shake my head and sigh.
* Lately I've been working on growing out the hair on my head. I never style it (except to keep my relentless curly, wacky bangs in flatironed submission when they're really bad); it either hangs long around my face or is pulled back in a ponytail. I like it for a lot of reasons- I like the challenge of growing my hair out, of resisting to get it cut, of slowly watching it get longer and longer, and I love the way it feels (does that make me femme, to love running my hands through my hair?). I've always thought my long hair was a bit of a cover, a mainstream disguise. But yesterday a at a friend's party, my mother took a look at her pretty, short, elegantly styled hair and asked me why I didn't cut mine. I didn't take the time to remind her that my hair has been short before, layered, modeled after magazine pictures, and it never looks the way it did in those examples, because I don't style my hair- I want to wake up, brush, and go. I simply never want to have hair that makes you sadly say "No, no, roll up the car windows, I can't mess up my hair.". I didn't stop to tell her that cutting my hair like Bethany's wouldn't make me look like her- feminine, elegant, pretty, womanly. I didn't stop to point out that short, unstyled hair, compounded by my clothes, my weight, and my attitude, would only serve to scream "Dyke! Huge dyke!". I simply smiled and told her I was growing it out.
* A few days ago at work, the new secretary, decked out in hot pink, looked at me and asked if I was wearing pink eyeshadow (she was seeing her own outfit reflected in my glasses). I said no, and she went on to comment "But you would look really good if you ever decided to start wearing makeup!". I must have made another one of those faces, the surprised and disturbed ones that I can't even help, because she quickly threw in there: "I mean, it's okay- I didn't start wearing makeup unti I was 24." I nodded and fake smiled, but I'm sure she knew the damage was done. I just get so, so tired of people assuming that I don't know what makeup is. I'm sure they're picturing me rummaging through their handbags cavewoman-style grunting "What this tube red stuff?". Just because I don't wear makeup does not mean that I am in need of a makeover, that I am ignorant about that sort of thing. It's a choice, not a default. I recognize that if I took the time and effort, I could be more feminine, more "beautiful", and I wish more people would see my not doing that as a conscious choice, and stop trying to "save me from myself".
So yeah, that's it. It's not a lot, but somehow, coming one right after another, just seemed to compound the message being thrown at me- be more feminine!- and I feel chafed, caught in-between, even less able to reject these messages than if I were full-out butch. It sucks, to say the least :(.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Hi, Are You Flirting With Me?
Hey, a personal blog! Read more about my flirting- or lack thereof- by clicking the link below.
I spent the night before last enjoying a late-night buffalo-wing and blue cheese chowdown and let's-reminisce-about-old-times-and-affirm-our-friendship rendezvous with my best friend at Denny's. It was nice; lately our friendship has been floundering, for a variety of reasons, and the midnight snack felt like old times again- wandering memory lane through high school before it ever felt like our lives would diverge down different paths, commiserating about our weight, failed exercise regimens, and how a basket each of buffalo wings certainly doesn't help, and, eventually, like all our good conversations do, turning towards relationships and our romantic woes.
This time, though, there seemed to finally be something more than just abstract hypotheticals to the chatter, and I unfortunately was quite unprepared for it. You see, there was a deliciously appealing Denny's hostess. Sitting in my booth, I had the perfect view of her over my friend's shoulder. I actually at first thought she was a boy- she had that wonderful sort of androgyny that you can't call butchness, because it simply isn't butch, but more like fay, elvish beauty that doesn't require makeup or other feminine accoutrements to manifest itself. Suffice to say, I stared and surreptitiously watched her the entire time, fascinated. I certainly didn't hide it, but I really didn't feel like I was being noticed in my watching, either.
But then, long after the check has been paid, our waitress has taken off, and we're simply wasting time, she comes by and stops at our table. There's an almost a palpable, uncomfortable silence as she stands there, and we finally look up- another strange silence, and she produces a rag and asks to clean up our table, if we'd just lift our glasses there, yes, thanks, guys, now your arms won't get all sticky. A slight laugh and very warm smile. Then she trots off- having cleaned not a single other table, and apparently not having taken over any sort of bussing or cleaning duties.
Maybe I'm reading too much into it. Maybe it was late and slow (it had to be approaching 1 o'clock in the morning) and she had nothing better to do. Maybe she really was concerned with making our table cleaner; quite honestly it was rather sticky from the cherry coke syrup. But then we go to leave, and just before we're out the door, she catches sight of us and calls out an almost frantic "Bye, guys, thanks!" with a finger-curling wave of her hand. Maybe I'm reading too much into it. Or maybe she noticed me noticing her and took the initiative to get a little closer; do a little flirting.
And that, right there, is my problem.
I don't know how to flirt. I don't know how to recognize it. Somehow, in all the hulabaloo of high school's education on proper social conduct for young boys and girls, I was off reading, practicing Wicca, and focusing far too hard on my school studies. It wasn't that I didn't want a boyfriend . . . but my dreams roughly involved being pursued by a dedicated suitor, without any work on my part but to blush and maybe play hard to get, or forming a casual male friendship that would eventually lead to a hesitant kiss over the homework we were doing together in my room, which would transform into a highschool-sweetheart relationship that would finally end in marriage. I simply didn't want to expend any effort, to tell the truth, and what's more, I did not want to have to become one of "those girls".
"Those girls" being, of course, pretty much any girl who put thought into her appearance in the hopes of impressing the boys. I hated- and still pretty much do hate- the courtship dance that men and women do. I didn't want to have to flirt and preen and be silly and stupid. Every girl who seemed adept at it also seemed to be the exact opposite of the person I wanted to become, the person that I was. And it wasn't just about the masculine-feminine divide, because the lesbian butch-femme dance, that twirling trade off opposing energies, is beautiful and alluring to me. Perhaps it's simply the sheer normalcy and the taking for granted that it's the way it's supposed to be. Maybe I buck and rebelled at the heteronormativity that put me in place of the preening female to the aggressive male, that oppressive model. I've always wanted to be different, after all.
But the point is that I've missed out on this crucial skill. I'm sure I could probably muster up some flirty behavior if pressed, but when it comes to recognizing it when it's directed at me . . . I suck. Is it just being friendly, or is it more? I couldn't tell you at all. And while I know people struggle with reading the signs all the time, I just feel much more helpless than anyone else.
Besides, how do you flirt with a hostess at Denny's? She's not even a waitress who occasionally can be flagged down to ask for extra and unnecessary napkins. What ought I have done? I certainly would have liked to see my friend's face if I tried to flirt with a girl (this being the same friend who has never mentioned my bisexuality since I told her about it, and continues to talk about relationships in straight terms only) right in front of her.
All I know is that the event impressed itself upon me, enough to want to write a blog about it. I obviously need flirting lessons.
I wonder, though . . . I do want to go back to Denny's in the hopes of seeing her again.
I spent the night before last enjoying a late-night buffalo-wing and blue cheese chowdown and let's-reminisce-about-old-times-and-affirm-our-friendship rendezvous with my best friend at Denny's. It was nice; lately our friendship has been floundering, for a variety of reasons, and the midnight snack felt like old times again- wandering memory lane through high school before it ever felt like our lives would diverge down different paths, commiserating about our weight, failed exercise regimens, and how a basket each of buffalo wings certainly doesn't help, and, eventually, like all our good conversations do, turning towards relationships and our romantic woes.
This time, though, there seemed to finally be something more than just abstract hypotheticals to the chatter, and I unfortunately was quite unprepared for it. You see, there was a deliciously appealing Denny's hostess. Sitting in my booth, I had the perfect view of her over my friend's shoulder. I actually at first thought she was a boy- she had that wonderful sort of androgyny that you can't call butchness, because it simply isn't butch, but more like fay, elvish beauty that doesn't require makeup or other feminine accoutrements to manifest itself. Suffice to say, I stared and surreptitiously watched her the entire time, fascinated. I certainly didn't hide it, but I really didn't feel like I was being noticed in my watching, either.
But then, long after the check has been paid, our waitress has taken off, and we're simply wasting time, she comes by and stops at our table. There's an almost a palpable, uncomfortable silence as she stands there, and we finally look up- another strange silence, and she produces a rag and asks to clean up our table, if we'd just lift our glasses there, yes, thanks, guys, now your arms won't get all sticky. A slight laugh and very warm smile. Then she trots off- having cleaned not a single other table, and apparently not having taken over any sort of bussing or cleaning duties.
Maybe I'm reading too much into it. Maybe it was late and slow (it had to be approaching 1 o'clock in the morning) and she had nothing better to do. Maybe she really was concerned with making our table cleaner; quite honestly it was rather sticky from the cherry coke syrup. But then we go to leave, and just before we're out the door, she catches sight of us and calls out an almost frantic "Bye, guys, thanks!" with a finger-curling wave of her hand. Maybe I'm reading too much into it. Or maybe she noticed me noticing her and took the initiative to get a little closer; do a little flirting.
And that, right there, is my problem.
I don't know how to flirt. I don't know how to recognize it. Somehow, in all the hulabaloo of high school's education on proper social conduct for young boys and girls, I was off reading, practicing Wicca, and focusing far too hard on my school studies. It wasn't that I didn't want a boyfriend . . . but my dreams roughly involved being pursued by a dedicated suitor, without any work on my part but to blush and maybe play hard to get, or forming a casual male friendship that would eventually lead to a hesitant kiss over the homework we were doing together in my room, which would transform into a highschool-sweetheart relationship that would finally end in marriage. I simply didn't want to expend any effort, to tell the truth, and what's more, I did not want to have to become one of "those girls".
"Those girls" being, of course, pretty much any girl who put thought into her appearance in the hopes of impressing the boys. I hated- and still pretty much do hate- the courtship dance that men and women do. I didn't want to have to flirt and preen and be silly and stupid. Every girl who seemed adept at it also seemed to be the exact opposite of the person I wanted to become, the person that I was. And it wasn't just about the masculine-feminine divide, because the lesbian butch-femme dance, that twirling trade off opposing energies, is beautiful and alluring to me. Perhaps it's simply the sheer normalcy and the taking for granted that it's the way it's supposed to be. Maybe I buck and rebelled at the heteronormativity that put me in place of the preening female to the aggressive male, that oppressive model. I've always wanted to be different, after all.
But the point is that I've missed out on this crucial skill. I'm sure I could probably muster up some flirty behavior if pressed, but when it comes to recognizing it when it's directed at me . . . I suck. Is it just being friendly, or is it more? I couldn't tell you at all. And while I know people struggle with reading the signs all the time, I just feel much more helpless than anyone else.
Besides, how do you flirt with a hostess at Denny's? She's not even a waitress who occasionally can be flagged down to ask for extra and unnecessary napkins. What ought I have done? I certainly would have liked to see my friend's face if I tried to flirt with a girl (this being the same friend who has never mentioned my bisexuality since I told her about it, and continues to talk about relationships in straight terms only) right in front of her.
All I know is that the event impressed itself upon me, enough to want to write a blog about it. I obviously need flirting lessons.
I wonder, though . . . I do want to go back to Denny's in the hopes of seeing her again.
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