We as women are put into a box – we can be pacified and accept these terms and conditions that come with our birth certificate, or we can challenge them.
“You care too much about what your friends think.”
That we should “sack up” or “grow some balls” instead of “grow a vagina” to toughen up.
Perhaps the most insidious part is that we’re so convinced our guilt is justified, we feel guilty for not feeling guilty.
Vaginal sweating. Yes, it’s a thing. No, I’m not going to describe it to you.
Some have asked me “who’s the woman in the relationship?” and I remain dumbfounded. I mean, the objective answer would have to be neither myself nor my boyfriend — that’s sort of a given in a relationship between men, no?
Earlier this year, the last name “problem” came to the forefront of my mind once again. I was now in a committed, long-term relationship, and there was a good chance that this was the last name I would be adopting someday.
As much as I’d never admit it out loud, just between you, me, and the internet: I want a good “how we met” story. With online dating you don’t have that, you just exchange a few notes and then meet at a bar hoping the other one isn’t fat.
Be your own inciting incident, be that girl Disney never writes about, that society never expects. Be the girl who provokes her own legends.
My parents raised me well, but sometimes I wish my mother had taught me to be “girly.” I was urged to ride bikes and play with the Ninja Turtle action figures I preferred over the Barbies and similar pink trappings…