GIRL INTERRUPTED
                                 
     When it comes to love and sex, intellect is  easily eclipsed by foolishness. This unavoidable reversal began at adolescence, but  I thought  I was done with the process by my  20's.  As  a woman who is single again and “active”, (great euphemism),  my confidence in  my sex appeal has been seriously challenged.  I hadn't really checked in on it for years.  Growing up, I consciously interrupted the girl. Later, life interrupted the woman, and left me lost and terrified.

EVOLUTION OF A SIREN WANNABE

     From the time I became aware of my changing hormones, I realized that being attractive to the opposite sex was  necessary. At age 12,  I initiated my transformation. Given the omniscient sensibilities of a girl just entering puberty, I can only imagine how bizarre my perceptions and their manifestations must have appeared.

     The first thing I did, was make myself into a movie stereotype of feminine. I worked on eradicating my coordinated tomboy self, and replaced her with the girl that always trips when running. I dropped balls in sports. I slowed down in races to let boys win. I pretended to be bewildered by situations, just so I could ask a boy for help. I laughed at stupid jokes, not realizing that this was validating uncreative humor for women to be subjected to in the future

     First blood was drawn in the bathroom. I stripped down to my white cotton underwear and I borrowed by Dad’s razor. His shaving cream went on next. How does anyone see anything? Without any idea of pressure or technique I braced myself with one leg on the toilet seat and began shaving. Being actually quite craven, I slowly drew the razor up my leg through the white foam. I anxiously peeked underneath. Everything was the same. My cowardly touch never got to my leg, only through the foam. I had to use more pressure.The shaving cream got smeared over the same strip again and I started at the top. Was it supposed to sting? The red line dripping down my shin accounted for that. Gritting my teeth, the shaving cream was patted off. The blood was rinsed, followed by mercurochrome, and multiple band aids. Enough for a first try. With time, I did get better. By the time I needed to do my underarms, I was a vet. It wasn’t until later, that I literally grew into needing a bikini anything. This progressed from a neat trim with a razor, to (much later), the dreaded conventional bikini wax as a pre-vacation measure.

     I badly needed a mentor. I went local, in fact across the street. She was already in her late teens and had boys engraving her initials on their hubcaps. Perfect.  I began studying her walk. Until then, I was getting from one place to another just fine. I also noticed no one bothered to watch me either. My mentor’s walk had a hypnotic effect on boys and I was determined to at least get close. I worked on something that became a conscious cross between a rhythmic sway and a slow wiggle. There was so much side to side motion, it slowed me considerably. I actually mastered it so well, that I was asked to demonstrate my hips, (which were still mostly recognizable only because they were below my waist), when we were learning "The Cha Cha" at day camp. Time progressed and along with it, came some curves. I found myself losing my baggy sweatshirts and jeans for things that hugged my new more womanly silhouette. Finally, there was a reason for good posture. It drew attention to my slowly developing chest. All the ballet lessons were paying off.

      There was something else I noticed about my mentor. She had a sexy voice. I still don’t understand how I knew it was sexy, but I was certain. I was also not sure of how I sounded, but I knew it was nothing like that. This new dimension needed defining and refining. I listened carefully. She spoke low in pitch and volume, especially to boys. The problem was, I had no information on what she was saying…a critical missing factor. I would just have to work on the voice first, and postpone content. I was always a decent mimic but to that point, I had concentrated on cartoon characters and relatives. It was different becoming a femme fatale. One day I picked up the phone for her, only to hear a male counterpart of her voice. With my guru’s encouragement, I took the call as a dry run. I the panicked having not yet gotten through the content piece. It became necessary to answer all his conversation cryptically. In truth, I could have been primed with all the background information in the world, and I would have been equally lost. Providence took pity on me. He took my evasiveness for flirting. (He wasn’t that sharp.)  He continued his attempts to reel in his coquette, until my mentor’s laughing got a bit too loud despite the pillow. Little did he know he was dealing with a 12 year old version of Chauncey Gardner.

     The male gender soon transcended into a more natural aspect of my life. I didn’t seem to have problems meeting, attracting, or having relationships. (Quality was another issue). Whatever I had cultivated at puberty, had morphed into my own interpretation. I threw out the girl that was conscientiously clumsy, dumb, uncoordinated, and tolerant of every dazzling male attempt at humor or brilliance. I knew she would surface unbidden on her own. I maintained only what had been actualized more organically, relatively painlessly, or as a result of my own esthetic expression. To differing degrees of attention and occasion, grooming including brows, basic female shaving, make-up, perfume, moisturizer, attention to hair (on my head), lace, silk, and leather. Did you notice the operative phrase “relatively painlessly”?   Between Duane Reade, Bloomingdale’s, and experience, I had cultivated some confidence and self esteem in this milieu . I felt equipped to tackle the critical triad of love, desirability, and acceptance and felt this was validated by my fairly enduring marriage.

     The immolation to my feminine persona was divorce. Divorce possibly inferred that I had not been watching the boat for too long. It went on to punitively  indicate that if I didn’t want to be alone forever, I would have to begin dating. How does a woman do this when she’s over 20 years older since the last time, and all that implies? Faced with this sort of gauntlet, is enough for any woman to do a few or many stupid things. You are essentially starting from scratch in a new world, as a different person, in an older body, and with an outdated mindset. I opened my eyes, took a deep breath, and threw myself out there. I have found the field, the players, and my relationship to the entire arena totally changed. This prompted my investigation into the seemingly innocuous, yet still mysterious Brazilian bikini wax. Fear, naivete, and curiosity are all guilty of guiding me into some very strange choices. I have maintained my tenuous dignity with the knowledge that most choices, are not irrevocable.

                                                                     Curious Conscious Unconquered Inconclusive

 Dedicated to a much loved and lost aunt.