Man! I Feel Like A Woman

Being a girl, as vouched for by millions of double-X-ites (and that refers to XX chromosome configuration in case you missed school level biology), is not easy. Nineteen years (and continuing) of pimples, bad-hair days, ruined nails, PMS, cramps, hydrating masks, waxing, figure woes have convinced me of that. One spends so much time trying to be a girl that one is often led to wonder what we unbroken creatures would be if not assiduously trained in the art of attaining feminity – possibly some close kin of the Neanderthal man. Or worse, as our mothers never fail to remind us, husbandless.

It begins from the very cradle. I’m sure proud parents of “Sushila” or “Prudence” hush up their masterpiece’s lusty wails with a “behave like a lady”. That continues to how little ladies don’t tear their frocks and don’t fight and don’t behead their ubiquitous Barbies. Then, just where the parents let off, SCHOOL begins. Ok, I concede that my schooling experience is not quite the norm (and is soon dying out, more’s the pity), but my school was one of those charming miniature finishing schools – over a hundred years old (130 is closer) and staffed with the most delightful remnants of the Raj in the shape of ancient Anglo Indian ladies and other Anglophiles.( I say this without a hint of ill-will – those teachers were some of my favorites and it’s heartbreaking for me to see the demise of that old-school class nowadays). So along with our ABC’s and Marian Richardson Cursive Writing, we were taught to sit properly( with legs either crossed in a ladylike fashion or with knees pressed together, ankles touching), walk properly (“Don’t drag your feet”, “Don’t slouch”, “No running in the corridors”, “Chin up”, “Back Straight”), talk properly (in soft dulcet tones, no screaming like a hag, and to note that twenty is pronounced “twen-tay” alone, “twen-tee” in conjunction) and so on and so forth. Young ladies never quarrel – they merely express a difference in opinion. Young ladies never give or receive birthday bumps – that vulgar custom whereby people enjoy other people’s birthdays. Young ladies must not adopt wild hairstyles – hair must be properly braided the moment it threatens to reach twistable length. Young ladies must suffer terrible high heeled pumps in senior school. Young ladies must learn to make cross-stitch table cloths, paint vases and make miscellaneous paper decorations. I wonder why they tried to prepare us for assuming the position of Duchess of York with modest blushes, but somehow or the other, we never quite turned out the way we were supposed to, I guess. A different kind of schooling, one received by default on living in a metro, was at work to thwart the plans of the conformistic school corridors. But this proved no easier in our labours of girlhood, I assure you.

This manifested itself in girlish rebellion – we WON’T plait our hair – remedy, get it cut in razor style, with loose ends galore decorating our sweating faces in June, and irritating bits of hair scratching the back of our necks, but of course, it’s the in thing, and we’d rather die than look like a typical convent school product that our school was trying to churn out. (although I must be careful to mention that our school was Protestant.) We’re rebels, we’re rebels people! So we go through excruciating pain to get multiple ear piercings, the occasional nose piercing and of course colouring our hair in vivid shades of orange (in this case causing eye-problems to onlookers). We wear our skirts two-inches shorter than the prescribed one-inch-above-knee, coz we’re rebelling against forced maidenly modesty – never mind the extra pain and bother of waxing involved. And the constant agonies about our thighs on display not being the perfect shape or size. We hate socks with our high-heeled pumps; we think they look so retarded that the idea could only have been our principal’s brainchild. So what do we do? take off the socks the moment we’re out of the school gates. As for the painful chafing of the backs of our feet and the heels – grin and bear it! Rather spend an hour everyday bathing our feet with hot water and turmeric than look like a clown. And need I even mention the taming of bushy eyebrows and (horror of horrors) the thin line of down over the upper lips (no..no.. I can’t say the odious word.. it begins with an M...). The amount of pain we silently bear every three weeks!!

And that my dear friends, is where our troubles merely begin. These self-imposed rules and inconveniences are probably programmed in us – we invite lesser pains as if to prepare ourselves for the bigger ones, and who knows, perhaps pain is somehow inherent in the definition of womanhood.... I have a sneaking feeling we even enjoy being martyrs once in a while. But only once in a while. Coz once delicate-darling complaints about period cramps are no longer entertained as a valid reason to miss tests or deadlines, it kinda hits you that you have to grin and bear it... sorry dude, no other way! And unless you want to scream everytime you look into the mirror..... those “hair-raising” incidents must take place, and you can’t afford to yelp everytime a tweezer approaches your face. You want to wear those figure-hugging clothes, so why complain when you have to curb your chocolate cravings or sweat it out at the gym? And if you don’t want to suffer all this, then chill out na, why should you care so much whether you’re attractive to the opposite sex and whether you pass the eagle-eyed criticism of your own?

But the problem is, we do care. And there isn’t anything we’d trade in the world for being who we are, girls. That’s why being a girl is so difficult.... and so damn fun!!