The original post:
I’m warming my feet in front of the fire this morning. Jeremy’s still snoozing. Gideon’s watching his morning half-hour of TV (“Y-Wing” or Lightning, as in McQueen, as in Pixar's brilliant movie Cars, a favorite in our house). Chewie is stuffed in the recliner next to me.
I’m planning the menu for the week. Waiting for another adult’s wakeful presence so I can run to the post office for Christmas card stamps and postage for a package to Montana. The adults in the house will probably take turns running their own private shopping errands today. Toddler in tow does not make for peaceful, contemplative shopping trips. Of course, I’m not sure how peaceful or contemplative any shopping trip just four days before Christmas can be.
Yesterday morning at yoga, as several of the other students were oooing and aahing over some ornately decorated Christmas cookies (made by our teacher’s daughter and classmates as a fundraiser), I was struck again by my complete lack of interest in such things. Somehow, somewhere - deep in the fiber of my being - I am missing those key elements of femininity that make diamond rings, glittery Christmas ornaments, wrinkly, red newborn babies and elaborately-decorated cookies exciting and enticing - impossible to resist. Is it genetic? Is it hormonal? I’m not sure, but whatever it is, I flat out do not have it. In fact, I’m not much of an ooh-aaher at all. So please don’t take it personally when I don’t get giddy over your diamond engagement ring, your perfect Christmas tree-topper, or your precious new child. I want to care. I want to join in the celebration, but it just seems I’m physically incapable of generating such interest.
I also seem to lack the ability to pull together magazine-worthy makeovers of myself when the occasion calls for such dress, hair and make-up. While I do manage to shower daily and try to shave my legs and underarms every two to three days, I cannot bring myself to care worry enough about body hair to pour hot wax on myself. I also couldn’t care less about gray hairs on my head or if people know my “numbers” - weight and age. I’ve never been particularly modest, although age and wisdom have taken their toll in that area.
I wonder if researchers have isolated the strand of DNA responsible for, or discovered the exact balance of hormones required for, such feminine traits and emotions. If so, maybe that’s what I should be asking for for Christmas. Because if we do have another baby and it is a girl, I think she might be doomed if I remain as I am today.
I’m planning the menu for the week. Waiting for another adult’s wakeful presence so I can run to the post office for Christmas card stamps and postage for a package to Montana. The adults in the house will probably take turns running their own private shopping errands today. Toddler in tow does not make for peaceful, contemplative shopping trips. Of course, I’m not sure how peaceful or contemplative any shopping trip just four days before Christmas can be.
Yesterday morning at yoga, as several of the other students were oooing and aahing over some ornately decorated Christmas cookies (made by our teacher’s daughter and classmates as a fundraiser), I was struck again by my complete lack of interest in such things. Somehow, somewhere - deep in the fiber of my being - I am missing those key elements of femininity that make diamond rings, glittery Christmas ornaments, wrinkly, red newborn babies and elaborately-decorated cookies exciting and enticing - impossible to resist. Is it genetic? Is it hormonal? I’m not sure, but whatever it is, I flat out do not have it. In fact, I’m not much of an ooh-aaher at all. So please don’t take it personally when I don’t get giddy over your diamond engagement ring, your perfect Christmas tree-topper, or your precious new child. I want to care. I want to join in the celebration, but it just seems I’m physically incapable of generating such interest.
I also seem to lack the ability to pull together magazine-worthy makeovers of myself when the occasion calls for such dress, hair and make-up. While I do manage to shower daily and try to shave my legs and underarms every two to three days, I cannot bring myself to care worry enough about body hair to pour hot wax on myself. I also couldn’t care less about gray hairs on my head or if people know my “numbers” - weight and age. I’ve never been particularly modest, although age and wisdom have taken their toll in that area.
I wonder if researchers have isolated the strand of DNA responsible for, or discovered the exact balance of hormones required for, such feminine traits and emotions. If so, maybe that’s what I should be asking for for Christmas. Because if we do have another baby and it is a girl, I think she might be doomed if I remain as I am today.
Posts
Part of my "fascination" with the royal wedding (and I didn't have much) was not so much the "beading on the gown" or the "yards of fabric in the train" as just these people as characters. I've seen the public family saga unfold since Princess Di's wedding and if you were just to tell what happened in the last thirty years as a story - a fake story - it would still be interesting. But I will admit to be curious about what the bride would be wearing.
ReplyDeleteI think those giddy factors of femininity (ooh-ahh as you say) come on a spectrum. Who knows why? But I hardly think you are doomed if you don't share the same fascination for new shoes, lip gloss or tiaras. You're not doomed, just different. And I know you meant that as a sort of joke, but I'm playing off of it... Sometimes being different feels like doom - especially in adolescence.
I feel pretty dang feminine, but when it comes to sitting around with people who all I can ever do is talk about shallow stuff -I suddenly feel different, like the weirdo at the party.
I've reluctantly accepted that, realizing I'll always be looking for my tiny tribe of people who look below the surface of things.
Not doomed - just different - and different is okay!
First of all, to answer your question, there is nothing wrong with you. You are well "Rooted" in the matters that really mean something in this world. The environment we grow up in shapes our interests and opinions more than DNA. So, if anyone thinks, erroneously I might add, that there is anything "wrong" with you, just blame it on me and your mama. We will gladly take responsibility for what you are and for what you still will become.
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