People – especially dudes – have a horribly disrespectful tendency to chortle when I firmly proclaim my distaste for or refusal to do something “because I’m a lady.” ‘Haha, yeah, “a lady.” Right.’ Um, ‘scuse me, asshole; last time I checked you were using the men’s room to pee, so don’t fucking tell ME what it is to be a muthafuckin’ lady. I promise you it sure as HELL isn’t ever gonna be what you WANT ladies to be. But just because this lady genie isn’t granting one of your three wishes most certainly doesn’t mean I’m NOT a lady. ‘Cuz I am. 100%.
At the moment, I am “packaged” like you’d expect a lady to be packaged: makeup, hair did, tasteful cleavage, heels – I look damn near Mad Men, if I do say so myself. But here’s the thing: this now is a very true expression of me and my personal style – and so is ‘non-descript everything with no “face” on’ me. I AM a lady 100%, but maybe you think I don’t LOOK it all the time.
I realized the perception shift when I got on the bus in my lady garb, headed to the chapel for what’s sure to be another gorgeous wedding of two incredible and loving friends, and noticed that people – ‘speshly dudes – were staring. Like “WHOA, dassa layyyyydy” staring. I truly didn’t comprehend that I looked any different than a normal day until then because everywhere I go everyday, I don’t even think about whether I look like a lady. In my head and heart, I just… am.
So. There you go. This lady is signing off to go celebrate love, commitment, and friendship.