A reflection on Sex-roles. (I am rambling).
My sister told me something the other day. I was merely complaining about the fact that I don't have a boyfriend. It's not like I'm trying very hard, but I just wanted to know why I was so clueless. I admit that I am really boyish. But it's not because I'm a lesbian or that I don't care or that I don't think I'm worth it. I have convictions. Wearing makeup everyday, doing your hair unnecessarily, hiding your views under a mask of fake helplessness, high heel shoes, string for underwear and fucking lipgloss is... as I view it... a sell out. To hide what you really are is a sell out. It's not necessary. Being presentable and being confident in your looks is one thing. But dangling your body from a string of false pretense of love in hopes that an archetype of the perfect male will catch you is another. No thank you.
She said that... in a voice that was clearly was trying to lay it on me gently... I came on too strong. "Sometimes... you know, Steph... you just... you're really strong. Maybe, you know tone it down a bit. You have very firm beliefs... and... sometimes you have to act a little helpless... you know?"
Do I really?
Do I need to act helpless, when I'm not? Do I need to smile coyly? Do I need to fall in love with someone I barely know? Do I need to pretend to be something I'm not? Do I? Are women really not supposed to be strong? Maybe she's right. Maybe the princess and the prince need to kiss at the beginning of the movie and not the end. Maybe I need to sell out. If that's the case, then maybe I'm better off being single.
I hate the modern dating system. We have know idea what we're doing. Teen pregnacy, condoms, weekend marriages, beauty magazies, divorce, latch-key kids, abortion, child abuse, AIDS, anorexia, bulemia... you read about these things and know that they exist but you never think it will really happen. Someone close to me has been diagnosed with an eating disdorder, and me in my tower, me on my hill, thought that it was something only in psychology books, assumed that it was just something for J.K. Rowling to complain about in her 'Extras' section. These things are real. They do happen. I don't care what anyone says. I am ashamed that I would ever consider not being strong.
I will wait until I find someone who can handle my too-stong self. And I don't care. I will most likely die an old maid in New York City with white hair and too many cats. And I don't care.
Where has all the love gone, anyway?