Not the Girl-y-est, but Still a Girl

I’m not now, nor have I ever been, the girl-y-est of girls. When I was born, my mother envisioned swathing me in beautifully ruffled dresses and cute little outfits. I’d wail until she relented and shoved me into a t-shirt and a pair of jeans.

I don’t wear make-up now, except for weddings and sometimes for job interviews. When I say wear make-up, I mean lipstick or gloss and mascara. The exceptions to this definition of make-up were my own wedding and a friend’s wedding in which I was a bridesmaid. In these cases, I hired trained professionals to do their thing, with the simple admonition “don’t let me look like a whore.”

On the rare occasions that I buy a skirt, I always ask the sales clerk what sort of shoes or boots I should buy to go with it. I usually append this question with “I’m hopeless at this sort of thing,” because I am. I’ve called friends on more than one occasion to cite a fashion emergency and have even called in one of these emergencies from inside a dressing room.

Despite my deficiencies as a girly-girl, I am still, at root, a girl. Peter knows I’m a girl (since you know, he married me, he’s seen the goods at it were and has empirical evidence) but is still sometimes amused to see me acting like a girl.

Recently, we were going to the cinema to see “Jarhead” when we passed a shoe store. I was drawn to the window, where I was forced by nature to ooh and ahh and hem and haw over the objects of my desire – cute little boots. So lovely. So cute. But alas, in my current status, they would see very little wear. So I was forced to back away from the window in abject disappointment. Although it wasn’t as bad as all that because they didn’t have the exact colours that I’d want.

Peter laughed at me for being such a girl. But he had an extra chuckle because I was being my kind of girl. The boots weren’t expensive or exotic or even made of leather. I wasn’t drooling over fine Italian craftsmanship. I was lusting after a pair of cute, brightly coloured wellies. They were on the order of these, only had more of a floral theme.

Then yesterday, as I was packing for Paris, we had another exchange that confirmed my girlhood.

Me: Do you want me to pack you anything special for the trip?

Peter: No, just make sure you pack at least 3 pairs of jeans.

Me: OK. Are you sure? Because I have special outfits picked out, some that I bought special for the trip. You know, it’s Paris. How you look matters.

Peter says something noncommittal and then goes back to killing baddies in his computer game.

Me: What am I?

Peter: I don’t know, what are you?

Me: A girl! Yet more proof.

Peter: Oh, you mean you’re not joking about this special outfits thing? You’re serious then?

Me: No I’m not joking. It’s Paris.

So, since 5 am this morning, my special outfits and I have been anxiously waiting for our big trip. I am a girl and, for five days at least, I’m going to be a pretty girl. Or at least a girl in cute outfits. (Sadly sans the funky Wellington boots. Ah well, maybe next time.)

Talk at you in five days or so.