I already knew the answer, so it seemed foolish to raise my hand and enlighten my fellow classmate cretins. In the rare circumstance when I had a question, I would wait patiently to see if anything subsequent shed light on my misunderstanding, and failing that only then did I feel the urge to raise my hand in class. Even then I rarely did because the answer could be found in the textbook. Unfortunately my lack of participation was somehow a cause for universal concern of my teachers all the way through grade school through high school. Why? I never knew. My grades were top notch so there was clearly no comprehension issue going on, and my mother tried to reason with me that if I knew the answer then I should say it so the other kids would know it too. Wasn’t that the job of the teacher? And this bullshit about going to the front of the class to prove with chalk that you really had a clue – utter bullshit. Nothing ostracizes a kid more then always being right and being forced to prove superiority which inevitably leads to becoming the class nerd and a subject for ridicule.
I’m still told to speak up in my adulthood, and my answer is now a less-groomed (but quietly spoken) Fuck You. I don’t feel my voice seems natural at higher decibels, and if the person I am addressing has listening issues that would only be resolved by my screaming to retain their attention,then chances are my time is wasted either way, and in doing so in a natural tone and volume I avoid hoarseness. Anger, I think, should also be quiet. Nothing fascinates and horrifies me more then watching adolescent girls catfight. Not only is the (loud) content just short of aboriginal, but the flailing and hair pulling and screeching is an affront to any credibility of the anger, and in fact is a blight on femininty itself. No, there is something darkly beautiful about quiet, sinister anger, and unique, sadistic threats whispered with complete sincerity. Withering rage – creative vitriol – these are the paths of legitimacy.
A catfight is a poor example (and only one snapshot of many that come to mind) of the baffling behaviors of the female gender. It is unfortunate that when I have to enter a female dominated world I have to consciously blend in to their natural habitat via dressing “fashionably”, adopt the female dialect and tonality, and be on constant lookout for body cues that I am communicating effectively. Receptionists must always be greeted with an empty-eyed grin, and the lighter the tone and the more variance to inflection in my voice seems to garner more cooperation and helpfulness from them, albeit at least half the time they seem to be crabby or suffer some other ailment and my cheer only damns me to a scathing, eyeliner-rimmed glare and menial treatment. Still, the “perky” approach works more often then not so I use it regularly.
Another tripwire of social conformity is the appearance. Personally I am happiest in jeans and a tank top with either combat boots or no shoes at all. This is not acceptable in the female habitat, and I lose any credibility or respect upon first glance, in a sort of estrogen inspired reverse deux ex machina flourish. You’ve all seen them do it – females size one another up in under a second, and you’re either deemed higher or lower on the ladder, and the way you will actually be addressed is based on, well, a myriad of inscrutable factors that you have no hope of nudging one way or the other. So my best bet is to look professional, feminine, yet innocouous. Oh, and I transfer my small pile of daily crap from my backpack to a purse for such excursions. Nothing tags an “oddity” (and by inference a “threat”) then a female without her purse; it’s the universal western female equivalent of “Oh my GOD, she’s, like, broken or something.”
All this work and pre-planning just to get what I want, which is good gynecological treatment. You think maybe I am being overly dramatic? I have had a string of bad treatment, bruises from poorly administered Depo-provera shots, semi silent-treatment, numerous occasions of the “dismissive and exasperated female head flip” and completely disrespectful and downright scathing reactions by receptionists, hair stylists, Victoria’s Secret staff … and the list goes on. No, I have learned to blend in and thereby get what I need.
It makes me wonder if they are all doing the same thing. What would happen if more and more of us threw off the shell of valley-girl dialect, dress slacks, high heels and purses? Hard to say, but a fantasy of mine every time I massage foot blisters after another round in heels.
Hair fascinates me, and it appears to fascinate the advertising industry as well. I never fail to be perplexed at the train of bright-colored commercials proclaiming that n can heal your hair, replenish your hair, give it shine, make it healthy! Hair is dead. It is dead tissue. You do not make dead things healthy, and if you were able to successfully make your hair grow faster or stronger, it equates to making it die faster and in greater volume then it normally would. You bet your ass I use a cleansing shampoo – I use a gym for gods sake and all sorts of ungodly things happen to a scalp in those situations. Oh yes, and I use conditioner too – not under the impression that I am conditioning my hair – but because I like to put gunk in my hair that makes it easier to brush.
But hair in itself is a unique female gollum. I am in the middle stages of growing it long again after chopping it to a 2-inch length and spiking it up butch-style for 4 years. Oh yes, it looks awful at this stage. But then I start thinking, what does “awful” mean? What is the inverse of awful when it comes to hair? Thin haired covet thick haired, short hair misses long hair, long hair wishes it could pull off short hair, blonde considers brunette, brunette goes to extreme lengths of maintenance to stand out from redhead, and redhead … just wishes for a tan! No one is fucking happy with their hair, myself included. Therefore I fantasize that someday evolution gives marketing a big middle finger and everyone starts shaving their head. Eyebrows can go too, because even those require “maintenance” according to fashion. Eyelashes can stay because removal of those is frightening and invites unwanted objects into the eye, and all you can really do with those is slather mascara on them anyhow with little to no effect. If no one is happy with it, get rid of it across the board. Start seeing people and not appearances. I would be all for running about in a comfortable bra and panties. This crap about dressing to flatter your appearance? Yah, fuck that, camouflaging; get on a treadmill and learn to read food labels - if it doesn’t do any good then you’re genetically humped.
Bras are utterly baffling. Uncomfortable things that leave marks on the shoulders, squeeze the ribs, and compress the poor, overly important breasts into a semblance of cleavage. My boyfriend finds boobs fascinating which doesn’t bother me in the least – he finds impish delight in groping me randomly and I enjoy any semblance of a massage I can get because the damn things do not like bras and let me know it by aching constantly. The one advertising giant that I have found has an iota of credibility is the Victoria’s Secret bra industry. I don’t know how, but these people got it right. They charge out the nose for less then a square foot of fabric, but good god is it worth the expense; they are comfortable and minimize the howling of the tits. I can order bras online having never tried them on, and they fit beautifully. I have, in contrast, spent hours and hours at Kohls and Target trying on bra after bra, settling for a pair that costs $10 where my boobs MIGHT not pop out so long as I don’t bend over or experience any vertical inertia, that’s bearable for a maximum of a work day whereupon I flee home, fling it off, and frown at the red lines on my shoulders. Not worth it: fork out the $40 and be done with it.
Feminity is inextricably tangled with reproduction. I loathe children like an environmentalist loathes litter: it’s gross unless it’s your own, everyone seems to have it, we’re not sure what to do with so much of it now while the problem is steadilly growing, and you really should deal with your own and not expect society as a whole to work out the issue for you. I could agreeably accept that I most likely have deep psychological scarring that has caused me to become a through and through misopedist, but I can also throw out a very rational argument that I am one of those people who should not be breeding.
Nothing, nothing on or in me functions properly. I suffer from migraines, generalized anxiety, bipolar II and have a rare genetic condition called Protein C Deficiency which is a thrombophilia – meaning I have blood clotting “issues” - that bans me from using any birth control with estrogen. As such I suffer from PMS and constant bleeding and am currently fighting for an endometrial ablation as my last resort to browbeat my female organs into submission: this process of being deemed credible enough to have the lining of ones uterus burned out at age 24 is the source of the previous half of this blog, as I try to blend into the female dominated gynecological habitat. My eyes betray me with random astigmatism and occasional, large blind spots, not to mention the sporadic pseudo-blindness that accompanies migraines. They’re also completely blue: the white part of my eyes is light blue, which is simply freakish. I experience occasional vertigo and tinnitus, indicating my inner ear is also screwy. I also was unlucky enough to inherit another genetic treat and am missing the top fold of the ear, which is the cause of what is more commonly known as “dumbo ears.” I resolved this issue years ago by undergoing plastic surgery at the age of 16, and only after that was I deemed suitable by the opposite sex – another wellspring of bitterness.
My cranial structure is also deficient and as such I have a moderate case of TMJ, where both of the discs in my TM joints are displaced to the anterior after a car crash that caused havoc to an underlying condition. My jaw has since then deteriorated into a grotesque caricature of a normal side profile, and I have a nonexistent jawline and a ”fat chin” that normally graces the morbidly obese.
Moving inward I also inherited inferior teeth. My dentist explained to me that tooth decay is primarily a genetic problem and is not, as I had always been told, an indication of poor hygiene. Unfortunately no amount of brushing could stave off what my heritage graced me with, and coupled with the backwoods dentist my parents chose to put braces on me who used the antiquated method of metal rings around the molars, I now have uniform, ring-shaped rot around all of my molars and all of my teeth will need to be crowned in my lifetime. I have an appointment monday for yet another crown, and I simply cannot wait, since dental visits en up in my jaw locking every morning for weeks after.
I’ve had an odd issue where something in my throat “pops”and a specialist determined I have a throat component that pops in and out of place at random – as best as I understand his explanation. I’ve been unofficially diagnosed with mitral valve prolapse, which in layman’s terms means my heart often decides to beat heavy and/or out of rhythm. My boyfriend also jokes that I’m half hummingbird because when I run I spike into the 190s and, well, it isn’t pleasant. (He also calls me a mutant, in a sadly accurate yet loving observation). My stomach and other lower down unmentionables are often upset due to the lovely IBS I got from my mother, and I’ve been fighting the characteristic weight spike my maternal side hits in their early 20s and, from all observation, never manages to master, myself included.
I walk “like you just got off your horse” due to being an amazonian six feet tall. Tack onto my height a distinct S shape in my spine and a cocked hip that sits an inch or so below the other and you get ungainly and clumsy. I also have a slight hunchback of Notre Dame hump that I have yet to determine is genetic, since my mother has it as well, or if it is an issue of poor posture or another spinal abnormality. My uniquely-female issues touched upon earlier also include debilitating cramps that manifest as stabbing pain, aching, and burning that cause me to spend one day curled on the bathroom floor throwing up, screaming, and begging for it to stop (this is one of the rare instances when I raise my voice). My knees hurt when I run, and I am utterly flat-footed. One of my earlier boyfriends said my toes are “long like fingers and freak me out” so I’ve been self-conscious about those since.
My paternal sides offers stroke, melanoma, and breast cancer, and both sides indicate a predisposition to alcohol addiction.
Nothing is designed properly or functions at an acceptable level. I am a walking genetic nightmare. The only attribute I have to lean on is my intelligence, and I’m convinced that is a product of nurture rather then nature, and by “nurture” I do not imply the nurturing arms of a mother, but rather a childhood of being ostracized where I found solace in books that had the unintended side effect of a raised IQ.
I will likely have even that small iota of solace, my sharp mind, stripped from me early on by Alzehimers.
As such, I would not wish my genes on any child, regardless of how much I loathe the little beasts.
The Id wins for the moment and I am now off to find food.
