It's Feminine or Feminout

I cannot determine whether I'm hyper aware or it's getting worse - but something has definitely changed.

Chalk it up to the flood of hormones, be it a low dose birth control pill, or chalk it up to the surroundings closing in, the pigheadedness of my fellow person, me being a bitch (more about that later) or any number of things but it's there. This is a real thing and just within a few days I have noticed it, maybe for the first time.

But first, about that BC pill, I'm 32 years old and for three weeks I was on the pill for the first time in my life. My body is a clock, and I typically know exactly when I'm getting my period. This has only ever not been true when I quit smoking, like really quit... for like months, which made me two weeks late, and more recently when I planned a trip to Spain and, two months before, decided to go for my own record of 17 days in a row of Bikram yoga. Normally, a regular practitioner, I attend 5 times a week, trying not to take more than one day off in a row unless I'm visiting Vegas for a weekend. But I was stuck in Hell-A for 17 days and for those 17 days I kept myself sane by practicing every single day, and my period ended up being a week late. A whole week - which was due to interrupt the already, purposely scheduled first week of August trip to Barcelona. See, I would have been done with my period by August 1st... I would have been. So, I panicked. Not that the guy who would be traveling with me would stop having sex with me but a period is a goddamn burden. There are cramps and too many trips to the restroom and, being in hostels and hotels, a fear of staining if you want sex to be what sex should be - fun. So, like I said, I panicked. I did a billion searches on the internet, ate tons of gram lentils (look it up if you want to try to "naturally" delay your cycle), decided to just go the hormone route and got the pill to try to trick my body into not having a period in Spain, because it wasn't supposed to anyway! Well my body fought back and I started bleeding the day we landed on August 2nd and, as of this blog, haven't stopped. I'm done with the pill.

But I digress - hormones.

This past weekend, I was invited to an art walk. There was this sweet little gallery in East Hell-A that a friend's friend's girlfriend owned or managed and we went. We went and we walked and we ate tortillas and I drank a $6 IPA, walking around with this beer like it was Vegas. I had such a wonderful time, and my ego was stroked by her friend's flirtatious cousin. He told me how beautiful I am, how my eyes are amazing and he cannot stop looking at them, but not just my eyes - everything about me. My hair, wow, and my legs, my god. But those eyes, goddamn, he could look at them forever. On and on and on. This was before we made the round of other galleries and when we returned, sitting there, he picked up right where he left off. I like to think I know the appropriate time to throw the "boyfriend" word out there and I had done so. Even if it wasn't true, I would have by this point. But what is it gonna take to get my number?
Literally nothing.
Do you want to go to a wedding with me tomorrow?
No. I don't.
What about next weekend? Can we do something then?
I already told you. I have a boyfriend.
But what is it gonna take?
This went on and on and on. Don't get me wrong, we all know attention is nice - and I'm no stranger to those of us that hold off on the relationship disclosure because we like the attention from someone else, I'm a pro at that, but this was more than persistent and flirty. This was downright disrespectful, and I know how to flirt and I know how to bust balls. This was a goddamn lot to take.
And when it wouldn't stop - I literally had to warn him that I was about to get mean.

MEAN?!! I was going to get mean?! Yes - because there was no other way this guy was going to leave me alone if I wanted to continue to keep my body in that spot where my friend was enjoying herself. And for a moment, I felt bad, which I absolutely should NOT have felt bad about. This person was not respecting my desire for him to stop hitting on me, not respecting the relationship I told him about, not listening, not caring, not letting up until I literally said, "I'm going to have to start being mean to you if you do not stop - this is enough."

It was so disgusting to me that I had that twinge of guilt. I could not believe the amount I endured and how he blatantly repeated himself with no regard for my comfort.

When I got home that night, someone in the parking lot, presumably a neighbor, yelled out, "hey, girl! Hey,, you! girl!"
Call me a romantic but that just doesn't do it for me and I find that ignoring it is a lot nicer than what goes through my head anytime I hear it.
"Girl, damn, neighbor.. that's how it is?"

I walked upstairs scared that I would come out to a keyed car or punctured tires later.. because I didn't respond to the sweet talk.

Here I sit, as I type this, after having seen a filthy movie in a packed theater tonight. I could not help but notice when the cartoon Douche on screen announced what he was, for the comedic reveal, the guy sitting next to me whipped his head to face me and waited for my reaction. **this is where I wonder if I'm just hyper-aware, hyper-sensitive, or if people can really be this (insert your own adjective here)

Before finally retiring to my room, still feeling somewhat normal and only slightly phased, I had a conversation with a neighbor who I actually speak with somewhat regularly. He knows I work in the sex toy business and asks how I got into that business...
...which inevitably leads to him asking why?
...which obviously leads to him asking if I've ever done porn.

...which was the straw that broke this lady-camel's hump, friends.

I've always been proud to be the woman I am - I can take it as well as I can dish it out, and I know that flirting is human nature, it's sales, it's banter and wit. I can take a compliment (better from a stranger than someone close to me) and I am definitely not sensitive - I assume if you are reading this, you probably wouldn't use that word to describe me.


But I am increasingly aware that these boundaries are just crossed, and I have to fight to be made comfortable. I am being watched for reaction and somewhat degraded for not responding to degradation. I am in my line of work, as a woman, because of something... there has to be something... have I ever done porn?

Anyway, I feel bloated and I should probably change this tampon.

I Think I Told Her it Would Be Okay

I think I gave my sister some words of self-proclaimed wisdom a while back...

She was struggling where she was. She hated living where she was living and the plan was to make a move here. She had a plan and a place to go - a loved one to land with. She hated it there, though, the place she was I mean. She would text me or call me almost every day and tell me how hard it was. She was miserable and hurting. 

I think I gave her some advice like "stick it out because you know it isn't forever," and, "stay positive - don't let it win. You're better than that." I think maybe I was supportive and loving. I think I tried to make it clear that she is smart and talented and would be okay, but that she just had to make it through this - and she could because she's strong. 

#TheDollEvolves

I grew up in a very unhappy body. 

I blame no one but myself for how I looked and felt. I was not what I wanted to be and struggled with how to be happy with it. If I wasn't happy, why was it so hard to change it? Hopelessness is powerful. "Why bother," was a screaming thought in my head. 

Without numbers or sizes, because they're truly irrelevant, I was just miserable. I didn't like how I looked and felt. I got winded too easily and relied on being the funny one, the smart one, the cool one - because there was no way I would be the hot one or the pretty one. 

I had no problem making friends or even having a boyfriend. I wasn't technically lonely but there was definitely an inside ache for something better. 

Years before this, I'm playing with action figures and dolls. Not long after I cut all of my Barbies' hair off and colored what was left with vibrant markers, I was dreaming of a Catwoman action figure; her face hidden and her body so strikingly perfect that you could paint a costume on her. The fantasy of so many of my friends... That's what I should look like. And she's got some great quips too. 

I did struggle, those years following. I can't take a compliment. Any shirt that touched my body was "too small" and I got very comfortable in giant garments that would tent around my hideous figure. Alone, at night, I would jog in place while watching myself in the mirror for a few minutes before giving up and crying. Why bother?

It was a simple solution to distract from my insecurities with outrageous hair colors and DIY fashion. Punk rock, or the 90s equivalent, was so full of angst and I could relate to the loathing outside of myself. Anything to make people not see in me what I saw in me. Please don't see how "fat" I am. Please don't compare my lack of cup size to my well-endowed friends. Let me be the cool, funny one that gets sarcasm and can hang with the boys. 

I don't blame Barbie or DC Comics or the fashion industry. I know that these feelings have blossomed in most adolescents and insecurity is not uncommon. It's widespread and terribly unfortunate but the news about #TheDollEvolves hit me in a way that I did not expect. 

I wouldn't wish those awful, crippling thoughts on anyone. I'm not ignorant to societal pressures or bullies, who are usually just as insecure as their targets, if not more than. 

Everyone deserves to feel represented and beautiful. 

Well done, Barbie. 

What we have

I think we could have something beautiful...

Because we already do.