Girly

I grew up a “daddy’s girl” in a post-women’s-lib society, and somewhere along the way I got the idea that I was supposed to be tough and independent, capable of doing everything my dad did and never needing a man’s help for anything. I thought I needed to be Bear Grylls and Lara Croft rolled into one neat little tomboyish package. But recently, I came to terms with something so simple and yet completely new to me: I am a girl, and that is ok. I don’t need to enjoy steak, carpentry, or watching old Westerns in order to be a good daughter. Nor do I need to be able to converse intelligently about football, replace my car’s sparkplugs, or do twenty chin-ups. I am a girl. If I could do that stuff and enjoyed it, that would be fine…but I can’t, and I don’t, and that’s fine too. It’s ok that I like wearing skirts and smelling pretty and drinking herbal tea. It’s ok that I giggle and squeal and believe in the benefits of pedicures. It’s ok that I can start a campfire but can’t watch a fistfight in a movie without covering my eyes. It’s ok that I know how to shoot a gun but don’t like paintballing simply because it hurts like hell. I can’t do everything men can do- and if I could, I’m not sure I would want to. I’m a girl. Not only am I a girl, I’m a wimp, I’m squeamish, and I don’t like being dirty. I wear pink, I hate bugs, and I still would like to be a ballerina when I grow up. “Girly” is not a dirty word, and I am not a tomboy or a feminist. I am a girl- and it’s ok.