I Have the Write

11-7-11

To Be a Real Girl

            When I was younger, I never gave much thought to what other women were wearing or what the fashion was, because I was pretty well occupied with other things.  Now that I’m older, I sometimes wonder what it would have been like to have been a real girl.  Truly I know this line of thinking is a complete waste.  I’m a realist; my life meant no time to be girlie.  But still I wonder.

            I find myself curious as to what it’s like to pick out a beautiful prom dress and have Mommy and Daddy pay to have your hair and makeup done just so.  I wonder how it feels to have a spa day where I’d be pampered and primped while drinking water with a cucumber slice in it.  I wonder how it feels to spend $150 at Victoria’s Secret, knowing the under-frillies will just be shredded before it’s all said and done.  I wonder what it’s like to say, “I can’t do it.  I need a man to help me.”  I wonder what it’s like to feel pretty in pink.  I wonder how it would feel to be Daddy’s princess, or anyone else’s for that matter.

            In my fantasies, I try to picture myself as the kind of woman I’d like to be for a day.  I’d be wearing a custom-cut, short sleeved Channel suit in navy blue.  Underneath I’d have on a few hundred bucks’ worth of goodies, including black silk stockings with a seam running down the back attached to my garter belt.  I’d have navy leather gloves that came to my forearms, a navy Prada bag and a pair of red Louboutins.  I don’t have to worry about the heels, because I wouldn’t have to walk far to the car waiting to whisk me away to a fancy lunch of decorative tidbits and expensive cocktails.

            But, alas, I am a functional sort of woman and not a girls’ girl.   A sturdy girl, I am, one who looks best in low light and better still in the dark.  I’m built for comfort and not for speed.  I’m not a lady who lunches.  I’m not an ornamental woman.  I’m not a trophy wife. When I try to pretty myself up, I feel like a buffoon in a Halloween costume.  When I try to be sexy, I feel like I’m joking.  I’m a woman who knows how to use power tools and likes it.  I’m a woman who loves sports and violent, gory gangster movies. I’m a woman who can cuss like a sailor and make you blush.

            Still I am a woman, and I suppose even after all these years, I continue trying to learn how to be a proper girl.  My mother was a true lady, but she’s been gone for so long now that it’s often hard for me use her as my role model.  So, I watch other women and try to learn from them, but I find that extraordinarily difficult.  I never find a woman who is similar enough to me that I might emulate.  I see many women whom I wish to be like, but I’d have to totally re-make myself in order to do that.  And I can’t change who I am.  Just about the time I think I may be getting close to being a real girl, something vile flies out of my mouth unbidden, or I want to offer to help some guy fix his car, and I know I have failed once again.

                        Most of the time, however, I really do like who I am, because I can adapt to whatever a situation requires.  If you need a woman to schmooze while hosting a nice party, I can do that.  If you’re looking for a gal with impeccable manners and good taste who can discourse on the arts, theater or books, I can be that.  If you need a woman who can use a wrench or help you tear down a wall, I can do that, too.  Sometimes, though, when I have trouble sleeping, I’ll lie in the dark and pretend I am the ideal woman, the woman I would have been.  All the while, I know I’m Lori, and that is mostly ok with me.  Still a gal can’t help but dream.