Imposter Woman

P.S. --My hair doesn't feel like straw today because I spent slightly more than 5 but less than 10 minutes "caring" for it. I will never be a lady.

I wrote this to a friend 10 years ago today. And if I do that damning act of comparing myself to other women, I would say that I'm still not a lady.

I don't know how to be feminine.

I don't know how to look beautiful.

My mom remembers me as a very small child telling her that I no longer want to wear dresses.

I remember walking barefoot so often that the bottoms of my feet blackened and hardened and in college a friend asked me to take my feet off her bed.

I remember wearing an old Cats t-shirt so much in school that I got bullied and my mom had to hide the shirt from me.

I remember watching my high school friends dress in certain styles or fall under certain aesthetics and a friend called me miscellaneous.

In this age of gender and sexual fluidity, I for the most part still identify as a cis-gendered woman who would rather look at ladies than at men. I'm not sexually attracted to anyone other than my husband but I do have the ability to notice attractiveness in others regardless of who or how they identify.

I never felt feminine. Sure, I love flowers, I crochet, I like to bake, I'm emotive, I wear dresses, and sometimes don cheap eye makeup. Like a post-partum mother, I have been unattached and unable to care about or own my hair and other feminine wiles. I acknowledge the topography of my body but don't own them. I feel completely detached to the idea of being a woman.

I have many stories of my solo-travels and befriending strangers (always men) and I tell these stories as if I'm not a woman in a body.

I'm aware that there is no one way with these things. I'm aware of the spectrum of emotions when it comes to being in a body. I'm aware that there is no wrong or right way to be a woman in these days, in this country, in my tiny existence.

But this is what I mean.

When I wear the dress, I feel like a clown. I feel like a fake. I feel like everyone sees right through it.

Not only was I not-that-pretty on my wedding day, I didn't care. I look back at my pictures and agree with my dad that I looked like a sofa. I often feel bad for my husband even though I know that he is happy, loves me, and would never want to change me. I don't want to change me but I want to understand me beyond chalking everything up to apathy.

When going out with friends or going to work, I only know how to be myself in my ill-fitting clothes and layers. I don't know how to accessorize other than weird hats and glasses which essentially hide me.

I don't know how to pair pants with my shoes. I feel a deep inability in being a woman and sometimes I struggle with it.

I have always identified and still do identify as the ugly friend.

Yet I don't struggle because I don't care enough. This is what I furrow my brow at. Why don't I care enough? Certainly it can't be hard.

Sometimes I mention wanting a makeover. But then I laugh and shake my head because it isn't something that I actually want. I feel like I should want it.

For a short time, I loved being in my strong body and pushing its limits. It had nothing to do with sexuality or femininity. This was robbed of me after an injury. I lost a lot of gains. I deflated but rallied.

This isn't a traditional body issue. Sure I'm curvy and have gained weight over the years, but this predates all of that. And there's nothing wrong with being curvy or overweight. Sadly, a lot of women say this without meaning it for themselves. And sadly a lot of women call women who don't care about how they look brave.

This isn't a desire to be attractive.

This is not a plea to be told that I'm beautiful.

I have my share of I'm enough and life is good.

I really do love life and the weirdness it is to be whatever I am inside this interesting, temporary body. I suppose I am just waiting for my body to catch up with me.