I've been thinking recently about what it means to be a woman. Partially because of the whole Caitlyn Jenner story in the news, and partly because I'm on my period, and that's about as woman as it gets.
Let me just say up front that this is not an ill-informed political or social take on transsexuality. If you want that, read your Facebook feed (except for the Daily Show video that's circulating; that one's pretty good). But I do think that the Caitlyn Jenner story gives us some insight into what society thinks women are, or perhaps exposes those inaccuracies. I mean, let's be real: she's really pretty, at least in those Vanity Fair pictures. But how old is she? 65? Have you seen other 60+ women recently? Because they don't look like her. Most normal women over 60, while still extremely beautiful in their own right, do not tend to grace the cover of Vanity Fair because they are no longer "sexy" in the eyes of the public. Their skin is not as tight. Their faces are not as smooth. Their breasts are not as perky. Their hair is not as shiny. They're a little wrinkly, a little gray (if they don't color), and a lot different looking than plastic surgery would lead you to believe.
So the question remains: if not sex appeal, then what makes someone a woman?
When I was a freshman in high school, a couple of months shy of 14, I got my period. Like most girls who menstruate for the first time, it was light, and I carried a pad around in my backpack for just the occasion. Nothing grand happened. I bled; that was it. Perhaps unlike some thirteen year old girls, though, I was dreading this moment. In fact, I specifically remember praying one night the year before: Dear God, I'm okay with being infertile if it means I never have to have my period. Think about it.
I told my mom about my period as soon as I got home. She hugged and congratulated me, loaded me up on pads, and then went back to cooking dinner. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but it's pretty frightening to bleed out from your private parts. I guess I was hoping for a little more consolation than congratulation.
I told my mom about my period as soon as I got home. She hugged and congratulated me, loaded me up on pads, and then went back to cooking dinner. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but it's pretty frightening to bleed out from your private parts. I guess I was hoping for a little more consolation than congratulation.
At dinner, we somehow got into a discussion/argument about what it means to be a woman. My mom was a big proponent of the Equal Rights Amendment back in the day; she even has an ERA belt buckle in her closet to prove it (politically fashionable, I guess). Needless to say, when I told my mom that I didn't think I'd feel like a woman until I got married and had kids, she wasn't pleased.
"No," she said, "you're already a woman."
"When did that happen?" my dad asked.
"Today," she said.
"Today," she said.
[insert groan and massive embarrassment here]
Yes, dear entire family who is currently putting food into your mouths, I had my period today. As if I wasn't already distraught enough about the fact that my prayers to be periodlessly infertile went unanswered, I'd like you to know about it, so that I can be embarrassed and you can lose your appetite.
Some of you reading this blog might take offense to the idea that a woman's menstruation is gross, but ladies, let's be real for a second and pretend like the men aren't listening. It's pretty disgusting. Think about it: every time you have a period, you bleed. From the general area of your body known for removing waste. Either into a piece of cotton inserted inside of you, or a piece of cotton sitting in your underwear. If you're adventurous, you might collect it in a menstruation cup. If you're ancient, you might just sit at home all day and then bathe the ick away when it's all over. As if that's not bad enough, there's gas, bloating, cramping. Moodiness. Headaches. Stained sheets and underwear.
Last night, one day into my monthly cycle, I lay on B's bed with a heating pack above my uterus, migraine medicine in my system, and the occasional low whine escaping my lips. He was packing for a weekend trip to Texas. I was lying face down trying to will the pain away. "Is there anything I can do to help?" he asked. That B, he's a keeper. I went home shortly thereafter and crawled into bed. It was fitful sleep, as expected, but at least it was a break from the cramps and nausea.
After college, someone told me about this group of friends that she belonged to that framed the female period in a positive light. Think of it as a good thing, she said. Embrace this aspect of being a woman. But I couldn't. I have never liked it. At best, I have tolerated it. Part of me secretly wishes I'd get pregnant so that I could get a break from my periods. Of course, that's just trading in one kind of discomfort for another. Never get pregnant, my sister-in-law told me a few days after my first niece was born. Never get me pregnant again, she told my brother after their second child. And she doesn't have to tell me twice; pregnancy and childbirth are not for the faint of heart.
In fact, I might have to get knocked up at some point in my life if I ever want kids because I'm not sure I can consciously accept the level of pain I would have go through at the end of those nine months. Sometimes I feel like I have a pretty decent pain threshold, and then I go to the gynecologist and she sticks some (smaller than a child) instrument up my vaginal canal, and I want to pass out. And contractions? Forget about it. I started having cramps about two years ago, and they're like a recurring punch to my sub-gut. When my time in the maternity ward comes, I will be getting drugs. (I would adopt, but these are prime genes I'm passing on, people.)
Also, I think it would be too hard to pass up the opportunity to feel a human being growing and moving inside of me. It's like skydiving. Sure, I might die, but hey, it's an invaluable experience, right?
Of course, none of what I've just written in any way acknowledges the real result of pregnancy: a complete and irreversible shift to motherhood. Read: I would never be the most important person in my life ever again. As an elementary school teacher and an older sibling in a large family, I feel that I have some idea of what it must be like to be a parent. Except that I still sleep at night. Seriously, after every visit to my brother and sister-in-law's house, I come home and sympathy sleep for like 12 hours at a time. As though I could transfer that sleep to them, or store up for the coming winter of child-rearing.
Babies are pretty adorable, though. You've gotta give them that. They suck up all your time and resources and sleep, and they ruin every material thing you own, but when they burble and smile, the world is bright.
In December, I turn 30. In today's society, this demarcates my entry into a new age bracket and "time of life." I will no longer be a care-free, selfish twenty-something. I will be an adult in some fashion previously unattained. But it won't make me more of a woman. Womanhood hit me sometime in my early twenties. I don't know exactly what caused it, nor could I venture a guess. At some point, I was simply okay with no longer being a girl, in the same way that I accepted paying bills or being able to do whatever I wanted, within the limits of the law. People call me ma'am now; maybe it's that. In the end, I suppose it doesn't matter how I got to being a woman, it just matters that I am. And while womanhood can be pretty shitty--worse pay, less respect, more vulnerability, hot flashes, starting your period the day you chose to wear white pants--it's still a good thing. I can't explain it. There's something empowering about dealing with all the shittiness of womanhood and still coming out swinging. It's like being Butler during March Madness. Sure, we're underdogs, and yeah, we haven't won it all yet, but man, it feels good to show everybody what we've got.
You can't define a woman in a neat sentence. Every woman comes with her own experiences, her own priorities, her own approach to life. The widely circulated phrasing "Real women have this"/"Real women do this" has always bothered me for this very reason. Real women have curves? What about the real women who have naturally small hips or flat chests, or who have a real problem gaining weight? Defining a woman necessarily excludes someone. Which isn't fair because we're all different. And awesome. And beautiful. And awesome. And powerful. And awesome.
Try and keep us down, world. Just try.
Last night, one day into my monthly cycle, I lay on B's bed with a heating pack above my uterus, migraine medicine in my system, and the occasional low whine escaping my lips. He was packing for a weekend trip to Texas. I was lying face down trying to will the pain away. "Is there anything I can do to help?" he asked. That B, he's a keeper. I went home shortly thereafter and crawled into bed. It was fitful sleep, as expected, but at least it was a break from the cramps and nausea.
After college, someone told me about this group of friends that she belonged to that framed the female period in a positive light. Think of it as a good thing, she said. Embrace this aspect of being a woman. But I couldn't. I have never liked it. At best, I have tolerated it. Part of me secretly wishes I'd get pregnant so that I could get a break from my periods. Of course, that's just trading in one kind of discomfort for another. Never get pregnant, my sister-in-law told me a few days after my first niece was born. Never get me pregnant again, she told my brother after their second child. And she doesn't have to tell me twice; pregnancy and childbirth are not for the faint of heart.
In fact, I might have to get knocked up at some point in my life if I ever want kids because I'm not sure I can consciously accept the level of pain I would have go through at the end of those nine months. Sometimes I feel like I have a pretty decent pain threshold, and then I go to the gynecologist and she sticks some (smaller than a child) instrument up my vaginal canal, and I want to pass out. And contractions? Forget about it. I started having cramps about two years ago, and they're like a recurring punch to my sub-gut. When my time in the maternity ward comes, I will be getting drugs. (I would adopt, but these are prime genes I'm passing on, people.)
Also, I think it would be too hard to pass up the opportunity to feel a human being growing and moving inside of me. It's like skydiving. Sure, I might die, but hey, it's an invaluable experience, right?
Of course, none of what I've just written in any way acknowledges the real result of pregnancy: a complete and irreversible shift to motherhood. Read: I would never be the most important person in my life ever again. As an elementary school teacher and an older sibling in a large family, I feel that I have some idea of what it must be like to be a parent. Except that I still sleep at night. Seriously, after every visit to my brother and sister-in-law's house, I come home and sympathy sleep for like 12 hours at a time. As though I could transfer that sleep to them, or store up for the coming winter of child-rearing.
Babies are pretty adorable, though. You've gotta give them that. They suck up all your time and resources and sleep, and they ruin every material thing you own, but when they burble and smile, the world is bright.
In December, I turn 30. In today's society, this demarcates my entry into a new age bracket and "time of life." I will no longer be a care-free, selfish twenty-something. I will be an adult in some fashion previously unattained. But it won't make me more of a woman. Womanhood hit me sometime in my early twenties. I don't know exactly what caused it, nor could I venture a guess. At some point, I was simply okay with no longer being a girl, in the same way that I accepted paying bills or being able to do whatever I wanted, within the limits of the law. People call me ma'am now; maybe it's that. In the end, I suppose it doesn't matter how I got to being a woman, it just matters that I am. And while womanhood can be pretty shitty--worse pay, less respect, more vulnerability, hot flashes, starting your period the day you chose to wear white pants--it's still a good thing. I can't explain it. There's something empowering about dealing with all the shittiness of womanhood and still coming out swinging. It's like being Butler during March Madness. Sure, we're underdogs, and yeah, we haven't won it all yet, but man, it feels good to show everybody what we've got.
You can't define a woman in a neat sentence. Every woman comes with her own experiences, her own priorities, her own approach to life. The widely circulated phrasing "Real women have this"/"Real women do this" has always bothered me for this very reason. Real women have curves? What about the real women who have naturally small hips or flat chests, or who have a real problem gaining weight? Defining a woman necessarily excludes someone. Which isn't fair because we're all different. And awesome. And beautiful. And awesome. And powerful. And awesome.
Try and keep us down, world. Just try.
No comments:
Post a Comment