When did it happen that I became such a girl? Disclaimer: Ike said this sounded sad, but I promise I didn’t mean to be pitiful.
Biologically, I understand, I was born this way. From what I’ve been led to believe, my mother birthed a girl. I’ve always peed sitting down.
But when did I stop sweating and start perspiring? When did I stop getting dirty?
Case in point: tonight after a few hours of coffee with good friends (who are strong and to whom I am indebted forever and ever amen), aforementioned great friends walked me to my car (because I am a small girly woman). One of these incredible friends pointed out my flat tire. “Do you have a jack?” asked other amazing friend. Hmm…well, I knew what a jack looked like…and 20 minutes later (plus 5 or 6 phone calls to Ike—who was stuck home with a sleeping Jake—to ask about the damn thing), I found it. Ok, aforementioned friend with goddesslike powers found it. Then these wonderful beings who walk the earth dressed as humans but who are really celestial in nature…and who let me call them friends…changed my tire.
When it was all said and done, they both had dirty hands and probably will wake up with backaches. I…well, I was uncomfortably cold and came home whiney (but clean). Ike built a fire (thereby also getting his hands dirty) while I sat on the couch.
Now the thing is, I used to be a tomboy. No, really, it’s true. I climbed and ran and fought and played Tarzan (but never Jane). I remember my mom nagging me about my fingernails being grimy. I had a couple of dolls, but mostly I just remember playing outside with the boys. I never had an Easy Bake oven, and when a well-meaning relative gave me a kitchen set, my mom gave it away. She didn’t want me to think I had to cook just because I was a girl (of course, it took me years to be able to cook and I blame her—I’ll write about that another time).
Actually, it’s not really a mystery to me when I went from ruling the world to baking the world cookies (figuratively, as I had no stove…thanks Mom). I became a girly girl when I was eight. One day, while playing Tarzan (I was Boy and my best friend Darren was Tarzan—he hit harder, so he won the best role), I was reprimanded for what seemed a completely random thing.
“Becky,” said my babysitter, “You need to put that shirt back on.”
“But Darren took his off, too!”
“That’s different. He’s a boy. Little girls shouldn’t run around naked.”
Ohhhh. Darren and I are different? He’s a boy, yes, but I’m a boy too, right? Wait…I’m a girl? But girls are boring and do stupid things like play house…
But you know the rest. Boy meets Girl, Girl realizes she never was a Boy, Girl becomes Girly Girl. Eventually I caved. I put my shirt back on. I started playing Jane, or (now that Darren ALSO realized I was a girl) “mommy” while he played “daddy.” I got more Barbies. I started wearing makeup (okay, that actually only started a year or so ago). I let someone else change my tires.
But wait. I have girlfriends who change tires. And I’m not that good at wearing makeup, but I have friends who can put together their faces and their clothes like…well, like girls. Where do I fit? Inbetweenish? What’s the place for the girl who can’t quite do anything right?
I guess she stands in the cold and worships her friends. Thanks, guys.
To be fair, if I had stood back and let you change your own tire, I would've had a corner of my "Man Card" ripped off. You lose four corners they take your testicles away. I have heard rumers that gay men are just normal guys who have lost two corners of their "Man Card"(tm).
I can't risk losing a corner over something as simple as a tire change. I have to save it in case one day I am court ordered to undergo sensitivity training or something.
Posted by: Woody at February 1, 2005 08:39 AMYou're welcome!
Great Blog entry, by the way! (and not just because you called us celestial beings or anything ;))
Posted by: goddessliketirechanger at February 1, 2005 08:43 AM