I’m a bitch. Not in the hateful, in your face sort of way (although sometimes I’m that kind of bitch too). I’m a bitch because the rest of the world says I am. I suffer from resting bitch face; the default mode of my lips is almost a frown. My voice has a lower tone than my more bubbly female counterparts. My diction is clipped and I tend to be a little loud, which everyone else interprets as yelling. In the workplace, I’m focused and to the point. I don’t mince words; I’m always honest (to the point that it’s brutal). I shut down unwanted romantic advances with a swift, merciless blow. Not because I hate romance, but because I demand respect.
I’m not jaded or bitter or cynical, but I am a mature, functioning member of the adult world. I see just as much joy in the world as I do darkness and I have strived to be prepared for both. My field of study and the professional world I align myself with demand strength and sharp intellect. I’m surrounded by men who think that, because I’m a woman, that I will be soft and sweet in my dealings. I am a woman, but I still consider myself a professional and I can throw shade with the best of them.
I’ve never had much success in the love game. Emphasis on love. I’ve had my share of trysts, affairs, and brief romances. At first, my strength is admirable and my aggression lends itself to my passion. Loving me is a hot, wild ride with conversation that is just as exciting as the sex. Over time, the strength that made me sexy now makes me unyielding. My independence that had once been a plus is now a minus. Suddenly, the men in my life ask that I change. Give up the fast lane. Dull my sharp tongue. The woman they want is not the woman I am.
Sometimes, I wonder if life would be a little better if I were a little softer. Turn off my argumentative mind and talk about gentle things instead of debating big questions. If I wore more skirts would I also smile more? Should I slow up on the sex? Look for a ring instead of a fling? Would I be happier and find a better man if I wanted to build a home and make babies?
It’s not that I don’t want these things. When I love, it’s fierce and consuming. My strength isn’t about pushing anyone away or selfishly caring for myself, I want to use everything in my arsenal to care for someone else. But where does who I am fit into that equation? Who will allow me to be soft whenever being hard is what comes easy?
I’m a strong, bitchy woman. I don’t know when to shut my mouth. I’ve been known to level a man with a raised eyebrow. My sense of humor is dark and dry like some red wine I don’t know the name of. I’m also kind and loyal and loving. Just because I’m a strong, bitchy woman doesn’t mean that I want the world to treat me like one.