The Saturday Ramble
Saturday, March 30, 2002
GIRLY GIRLS
I’ve never been a girly girl.
My sister is; even in her baby photos, she had long dark eyelashes and a little coy smile. In mine, I looked like I had just woken up and wasn’t very happy about it – kind of startled and pale. Very pale. Does-she-have-eyelashes pale.
My sister and I are only two years apart, so there were plenty of opportunities to compare. She had her first boyfriend at three; I had to wait until I was 7, and then he moved away after a big splashy Valentine’s Day gift of a gold necklace and a card that covered the top of my school desk. Things went downhill pretty rapidly after that, when I began to revel in the joys of beating the boys in races on the school grounds. Afterward, I would be panting and sweaty at the finish line while on the sidelines the girls whose knee socks stayed up admired the strong, tough boys.
My sister’s knee socks always stayed up.
Cut to me at 10, her at 12, as puberty swept us both up in its turbulent waves. Family photos show my sister, on a trip to Florida, standing ankle deep in the gently lapping surf, posed daintily in a neatly pressed lavender skirt and white blouse. The photo of me from that trip is face-on right after a belly-flop in the water, wet hair like seaweed and face screwed up from drinking a mouthful of saltwater. A few years later, when my sister was 15 and on a date with the 17-year-old valedictorian of the senior class, my parents made me sit with my sister and her date at a ballgame. I got into an argument with my sister’s date – about whether Golda Meir could, as a woman, be an effective leader in Israel. I was 13. My sister was not happy – that wasn’t very girly girl.
The trend was established.
I did learn how to curl my hair, how to put on eyeliner without blinding myself, and how to balance gracefully on high heels. I never quite got the knack of an eyelash curler, and I quit even trying after a friend of mine pulled out all of her eyelashes on one lid trying to curl after putting on her mascara. I managed to stop biting my nails in high school, and in college I became a fan of Mary Kay. Not that I used the products much, but I felt very girly, having those rows of pink plastic tubes and bottles lining my bathroom shelf.
Somehow, it didn’t quite take.
I remember once, when in my late 20s, standing behind two women in the aisle at church after morning services. Both were my age, nice, very attractive, always well put together. I had never been able to quite connect with them, though, and I wasn’t sure why. I listened in on their conversation, hoping to be able to interject a comment. The topic: when do you put on your makeup, before dressing, or after? One of them always put on her makeup first, dressed, then did her hair. She would put a small towel over her face to keep makeup off her clothes as she pulled them on. The other woman dressed, draped a towel around her shoulders, put on her makeup, then did her hair. They debated the merits of each for several minutes. They were true girly-girls.
I had nothing to add. When I even wore makeup, I put it on in the car and prayed for long red lights.
It wasn’t that this was a problem with the men in my life over the years, two of whom even wanted to marry me. Not all men are after the girly girls, and that’s a good thing; of course I bless them daily. And this is not a criticism of the girly girls, either. Many of them, like my sister, are smart, funny, excellent wives and mothers, and, if that’s their path, excellent in their careers. It’s just… well… they make me think of one of my favorite Hallmark cards:
Outside card: I ran into a friend today from my high school days, and she looked really great.
Inside card: So I ran into her again.
It just makes me itch, all that unmarred perfection. I can occasionally attain it, but I cannot sustain it. No elaborate hair-sprayed do for me – I have to be able to run my fingers through my hair. High heels are “sittin’ shoes” – only to be worn if you’re going to be “sittin’” a while. I can be very convincing in a power suit, with matching pumps and discreet pearl necklace, but for any serious work you’re more likely to find me in leggings and a long baggy t-shirt. And I’m okay with that.
I just wish I knew how they did it. It is nature or nurture?
Recently, two young friends from Texas, 18 and 22, came to stay with me so they could shop in New York. I asked them what sights they wanted to see. They said, Saks, Bloomingdale’s and Tiffany’s. Every day they dressed up. Every day one of them wore three-inch heels. And every day they came home with bags and bags of clothes, shoes and purses. By the time I left them at LaGuardia at week’s end, these girly girls had liberated enough NYC merchandise to fuel the local economy for at least three weeks.
I don’t shop that much in a year.
But I’ve come to terms with my un-girly girl status, accepting that by some freak of nature I share a gender with these females of exotic plumage. I have girly friends and ungirly friends, multi-cultural as I am; I just can’t trade hair care secrets or tips on the best nail salon with the girly ones. I find that the older most women get, the less girly girl they become – and the older men get, the less it seems to matter. This is a happy thing.
Still… down deep in my heart… when I think of the girly girls… I want to run into them again. ¶ 11:50 PM 0 Comments
I’ve never been a girly girl.
My sister is; even in her baby photos, she had long dark eyelashes and a little coy smile. In mine, I looked like I had just woken up and wasn’t very happy about it – kind of startled and pale. Very pale. Does-she-have-eyelashes pale.
My sister and I are only two years apart, so there were plenty of opportunities to compare. She had her first boyfriend at three; I had to wait until I was 7, and then he moved away after a big splashy Valentine’s Day gift of a gold necklace and a card that covered the top of my school desk. Things went downhill pretty rapidly after that, when I began to revel in the joys of beating the boys in races on the school grounds. Afterward, I would be panting and sweaty at the finish line while on the sidelines the girls whose knee socks stayed up admired the strong, tough boys.
My sister’s knee socks always stayed up.
Cut to me at 10, her at 12, as puberty swept us both up in its turbulent waves. Family photos show my sister, on a trip to Florida, standing ankle deep in the gently lapping surf, posed daintily in a neatly pressed lavender skirt and white blouse. The photo of me from that trip is face-on right after a belly-flop in the water, wet hair like seaweed and face screwed up from drinking a mouthful of saltwater. A few years later, when my sister was 15 and on a date with the 17-year-old valedictorian of the senior class, my parents made me sit with my sister and her date at a ballgame. I got into an argument with my sister’s date – about whether Golda Meir could, as a woman, be an effective leader in Israel. I was 13. My sister was not happy – that wasn’t very girly girl.
The trend was established.
I did learn how to curl my hair, how to put on eyeliner without blinding myself, and how to balance gracefully on high heels. I never quite got the knack of an eyelash curler, and I quit even trying after a friend of mine pulled out all of her eyelashes on one lid trying to curl after putting on her mascara. I managed to stop biting my nails in high school, and in college I became a fan of Mary Kay. Not that I used the products much, but I felt very girly, having those rows of pink plastic tubes and bottles lining my bathroom shelf.
Somehow, it didn’t quite take.
I remember once, when in my late 20s, standing behind two women in the aisle at church after morning services. Both were my age, nice, very attractive, always well put together. I had never been able to quite connect with them, though, and I wasn’t sure why. I listened in on their conversation, hoping to be able to interject a comment. The topic: when do you put on your makeup, before dressing, or after? One of them always put on her makeup first, dressed, then did her hair. She would put a small towel over her face to keep makeup off her clothes as she pulled them on. The other woman dressed, draped a towel around her shoulders, put on her makeup, then did her hair. They debated the merits of each for several minutes. They were true girly-girls.
I had nothing to add. When I even wore makeup, I put it on in the car and prayed for long red lights.
It wasn’t that this was a problem with the men in my life over the years, two of whom even wanted to marry me. Not all men are after the girly girls, and that’s a good thing; of course I bless them daily. And this is not a criticism of the girly girls, either. Many of them, like my sister, are smart, funny, excellent wives and mothers, and, if that’s their path, excellent in their careers. It’s just… well… they make me think of one of my favorite Hallmark cards:
Outside card: I ran into a friend today from my high school days, and she looked really great.
Inside card: So I ran into her again.
It just makes me itch, all that unmarred perfection. I can occasionally attain it, but I cannot sustain it. No elaborate hair-sprayed do for me – I have to be able to run my fingers through my hair. High heels are “sittin’ shoes” – only to be worn if you’re going to be “sittin’” a while. I can be very convincing in a power suit, with matching pumps and discreet pearl necklace, but for any serious work you’re more likely to find me in leggings and a long baggy t-shirt. And I’m okay with that.
I just wish I knew how they did it. It is nature or nurture?
Recently, two young friends from Texas, 18 and 22, came to stay with me so they could shop in New York. I asked them what sights they wanted to see. They said, Saks, Bloomingdale’s and Tiffany’s. Every day they dressed up. Every day one of them wore three-inch heels. And every day they came home with bags and bags of clothes, shoes and purses. By the time I left them at LaGuardia at week’s end, these girly girls had liberated enough NYC merchandise to fuel the local economy for at least three weeks.
I don’t shop that much in a year.
But I’ve come to terms with my un-girly girl status, accepting that by some freak of nature I share a gender with these females of exotic plumage. I have girly friends and ungirly friends, multi-cultural as I am; I just can’t trade hair care secrets or tips on the best nail salon with the girly ones. I find that the older most women get, the less girly girl they become – and the older men get, the less it seems to matter. This is a happy thing.
Still… down deep in my heart… when I think of the girly girls… I want to run into them again. ¶ 11:50 PM 0 Comments
Friday, March 29, 2002
Testing... testing... The Saturday Ramble is commencing. Just a short walk, today. Longer hikes forthcoming.
¶ 4:02 PM 0 Comments
