Another morning of madness here in the office...
Actually not so. Really, though, I shouldn't be so cavalier in my comments about boring mornings, given that yesterday I was quite thoroughly occupied, even for an hour overtime, when I was supposed to be out running. Just ebbs and flows. And really, I can't complain...ebbs are nice here and there. I kind of ebb and flow myself.
With all this said, this morning is, how might I say it, a particularly dramatic ebb. Because I'm me and I am getting that itchy feeling I get when I feel too unproductive, I have decided to grace the web with some more of my special brand of insight. Special, special, special. : )
I'm not sure what to write about though. I was thinking about telling about last weekend's snowshoeing adventure, or about how excited I am for my fast approaching midwest time, or, imagine this- being kinda tired (because I know that's pretty original and everyone's excited to read MORE about that...)
But instead I'm opting to share this little thing that keeps resurfacing in the shimmering and changing reflection pool wherein my consciousness resides and my little thoughts bubble up...
(Well. That was a rather sensational little analogy wasn't it? I rather liked it. )
But to the point, seriously now.
I'm really bothered by all these subtle ways in which I notice girls being persuaded to be less than they are. We have this almost subconscious habit of demanding that girls make a choice: well coiffed hair and lovely makeup and dresses and pretty things, and all the refinement and grace and poise that we associate with these, or brains and sports and thoughts and the strength and self-regard that go with these.
Thanks to a lot of hard work by those who recognized the injustice of women being denied opportunities as atheletes, entreprenuers and whatever else they dreamed of, I am part of a generation that has been enthusiastically encouraged to nurture our brains and bodies and to become strong women.
I am, and always will be, infinitely grateful for that. But I regret very much that, for a long time, it appeared to me that I was conceding something if I wanted to curl my hair and wear glittery barrettes. That it seemed that to admit that I was a girl, a girl who liked sweet sundresses and pretty pink lip gloss, and moreover, a girl with a real propensity for emotionality that I was convinced, perhaps even subconsciously, was one of the more despicable tendencies of a silly woman, would mean that I was not a strong, intelligent, self-respecting human being.
The truth is that I am a
very "girly" girl in some ways. I am also very "ungirly" in some ways. To try to be one or the other would be ridiculous for me. And yet I realize that a self imposed battle between these two aspects of my personality defined much of my adolescence.
I remember adamantly resisting when my body outgrew the diminutive version of the Gap, Gap Kids, and it was time to move on to grown up clothes. You know why? Because I was a girl, damn it, and I liked butterflies and flowers and pink things on my clothes! I remember going through a phase where I was really, really into very romantic hairdos, pastel glittery bobbypins a staple in my repertoire. I remember wearing cute Steve Madden shoes to high school one time, and then feeling like all the rest of the girls I played sports with wore running shoes and that I looked weird, like I was trying to be one of the cheerleaders or something. (We were required to dress up on game days, but it was understood that this was a lot to ask, and that we didn't do it because we liked it...) I remember this girl on my basketball team who wore makeup to practice, and how we all ridiculed her, and accepted that she was not to be taken seriously as an athlete.
I, in fact, remember two days ago, when I was filling out "Interests" in a profile about myself, and I noted that I really liked to bake, that I sort of cringed, just a little bit. You see, baking was not on my subconscious list of activites that the ideal powerful, strong women with important things to contribute might count among her interests. Fortunately, though, thinking was and still is, and thinking allowed me to realize that I was being absurd and unfair, and further perpetuating the very sterotypes I so dislike.
In 1967, Katherine Switzer was the first woman to run The Boston Marathon wearing an official number. She was permitted to do so only through a series of misunderstanding, the result of which was that race officials didn't realize that the individual registered as "K. Switzer" was not a man. (However, it is worth noting that at that time, the very notion of a woman running a marathon was so foreign that there were no rules regarding such an event, nor any discussion of how it might be handled) One of my favorite parts of Katherine's story is that she started the race alongside her boyfriend with makeup fully applied, her favorite earrings and bright red lipstick. The boyfriend dropped out. Katherine, however, went on to finish, and later, to have an illustrious career as a runner and advocate for female runners, including organizing the first ever series of races for women, sponsored by the Avon company.
The following excerpt from Nancy Hamilton, female ultramarathon runner, is from the June 1992 issue of
Suzi T's Trail 100's Newsletter:Suzi called on Mother's Day and asked if I would write an article titles "Nail Care for Woman 100 Miler". I will admit, between giggles, that I started getting weekly manicures a few years ago. At first I was quiet about it because it seemed like such a "girl" thing to do, but after being reminded by my husband and children that I was a girl. I decided "what the hell"! Not being one to be shy, I decided to have fun and see if I could come up with my own nail care. During training runs, I stopped thinking depressing thoughts of world events, or uninteresting chores that needed to be done. Instead, I imagined nail designs and put them to paper as soon as I got home.
I learned quickly that if I was going to be an ultra-runner with fancy nails, I needed to learn how to fall. Living in the mountains, 99% of my training is on rocky trails which provide ample opportunity for practice falls. It has become a standard joke at my house, if I come home after a training run with a bloody knee or scraped elbow, no one will ask if I'm hurt, they will ask if I broke a nail!
I arrived in Tennessee for the Barkley Marathons with a glittery T-shirt and multi-color polka dot nails. My greatest feat to date is completing Barkley with all dots in tact! Being tough as nails on the inside, and glittery and feminine on the outside makes saying "I told you so", after finishing an ultra endurance race, extra satisfying.
The real ultra challenge would be for a guy to do a race with nail art intact.
Suffice it to say, lipstick and pretty nails did not in fact interfere with either of these womens' abilities to, put bluntly, kick ass as runners.
I like that.
I am a woman who loves dresses and pedicures and baking muffins. I am a sweet little girl who cries sometimes when she is overwhelmed. I am moody, and I adore cute baby clothes. Sometimes I like to be taken care of. I am a woman who is thoughtful, self-sufficient, athletic and strong. I run ultramarathons, and I love the feeling of finishing a pushups/situps to exhaustion workout. I enjoy managing my stock portfolio. I am smart and my opinions deserve consideration, but I am not so bull headed as to not respectfully and honestly consider the opinions of others, be they male or female. I like to play outside (when it's not too cold) and I like getting my hands dirty. I like to clean up and put on girly perfume and fun shoes.
I refuse to choose to be a part of myself at the expense of the rest of myself. And what is more important, I want other little girls to understand that they shouldn't either.
(Well. Then. I feel like the ending isn't as emphatic as I'd like...maybe I'll eventually change it, maybe not. Perhaps its because this is an issue without a clearly delineated peak and closure, one instead that I'm still grappling with...)
Comments welcome. : )
