Hello Thursday! Meet my blog group, comprised of a fantastic group of ladies who will dazzle you with insight on various topics. After reading my post, check out their blogs as well. Just click on:
Froggie (Tracey): One frog’s distinct voice on the world around her.
Merry Land Girl (Melissa): Tales of a suburban mom who likes to talk about pop culture, books, Judaism, family, friendship and anything else that comes to mind.
Darwin Shrugged (Denise): Civilized Observations in an Uncivilized World
For this week, Denise asked us, “You’ve heard of the phrase, “he’s a man’s man”. I ask: Are you a woman’s woman?”
Popeye. Yes, I realize he’s a man. A man’s man, I imagine. He has a famous expression, and it was the first thing that popped into my head when I read the topic for this week.
“I am what I am.”
What is a “woman’s woman”? I imagine some fashion-forward woman wearing a black pencil skirt and 5-inch high heels, taking the corporate world by storm. She knows how to dress impeccably and wear makeup. She knows how to be in charge of her own life and her own destiny. She doesn’t take shit from anyone.
I don’t fit this criteria. I don’t wear skirts or high heels, and I don’t work anywhere near an office. My business involves wiping a poopy butt when the 4-year asks for assistance, or reminding my soon-to-be 10-year old that he needs to _____________ (pick up his room, get dressed, brush his teeth, take a bath). I swear, the older kids get, the less they remember.
I’ve never known how to dress fashionably or in style. When I wear makeup, a rare occurrence, I hear, “Oh. You can’t even tell you’re wearing anything.” I thought that was a good thing. I’m not in charge of my life. My kids are. Ask them. Our jaunt to the grocery store this morning was a disaster and I endured plenty of shit while attempting to keep them in line. Why is it so hard?
Going back a couple of decades (gulp), I’m convinced the gene necessary to empower a woman with womanly impulses and desires totally skipped me. In high school, I carried a man’s wallet in the butt pocket of my jeans. I never, ever wore makeup. Chucks were my shoe of choice back in the day, and that tradition has carried me through the years. They are on my feet while I type this.
I was different, but people accepted me. Not everyone did, but most people did. I’m sure I was known as the weirdo who wore Chucks with dresses and retro velvet patchwork skirts borrowed from my best friend’s mom (her mom was a real hippy, man) but it was okay. I wasn’t well versed in being ultra feminine and when I’d attempt to, it never ended well. It’s not every day your best friend yells at you and demands you wash your face of the makeup you’d carefully applied that morning. I was in my 20’s when that happened. Hey, at least I made an effort.
And I still do, on occasion. I want to know what it’s like to feel like a girl. I want to understand and appreciate making my face up, or wearing frilly things. I push myself beyond that comfort zone at times because I think it’s important to try new things. At the end of the day, though, nothing feels better than my husband’s pajama bottoms and one of his oversized t-shirts.
I think being a woman’s woman is being yourself and accepting that. Being the best you can be, no matter your fashion preference. I think it’s also about being confident in your own skin, and owning it. Being who you are.
Just like Popeye.