Woman is insecure

Woman is insecure these days. Not quite comfortable in her own skin. She has begun to forget what that is, exactly. She has become a shape-shifter. Who would’ve thought that a body: five foot seven, one hundred thirty pounds, and a mop of golden brown curls could be viewed from so many assorted angles? Different people see her in different ways. It isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It isn’t necessarily a good thing either. It just is.

There is a conundrum with this though. Very seldom do people ever see more than one side of Woman.

For Example:

Mr. Sports Fan sees 36-24-38, a playground of curves. He sees Woman’s shapely form, sees her spunk, feels her biting sarcasm and quick innuendo, gets caught in the heat of her natural sexuality. He thinks to himself, “This lady needs a spanking.” He also thinks to himself, “I’m the one to give it to her.” He pictures leather, pulled hair and swollen lips, sees red. He can’t take Woman seriously. No matter that her words create dazzling images, no matter that her conversation is sharp. He is blinded to it. Leather. Spankings. Done.

For Further Example:

Boss Lady sees Woman’s youth, unruly mop of curls and quick smile, and says to herself, and to anyone who will listen, “Tramp.” Too friendly, she thinks. “Who smiles at everyone like that?” Woman’s smile fades faster than the sunset. Boss Lady is quick to criticize. She is not quick to apologize or compliment. All Boss Lady sees is Trash (too much pride with that perky smile and walk- too much Spirit) and she will treat Woman as such. Young. Tee-shirt. Messy hair. Trash. Done.

You Want More?:

Mrs. Maternal sees Woman play with the children. She watches how Woman tends to bruised knees and the adeptness of her fingers at changing diapers. “Get married. Have babies. Change your name to Mother,” says Mrs. Maternal as her eyes evaluate the width of Woman’s hips and how effective they would be during child birth. “ You were built for it.” Hips delicious. Marriage. Children. Happiness. Done.

For Auxiliary Support:

Mr. Riff- he of the guitar solo and interpreter of the blues. “You’re being used. Every man you’ve ever talked to or been with used you for something. They’ll steal a little part of you just to say they had it. I’ve done it,” says Mr. Riff. “I’ll do it again. I do it to you, right now. It’s in my nature. You need to learn to do it for yourself, and fill that hole where people have take things from you- and fill it with what you have taken from them.” Woman isn’t sure, but if she is vulnerable, in a self- inflicted tower, like Mr. Riff claims- she’d like to jump. Done.

And In Closing Argument:

Sir Philanthropist sees Woman in a golden light. But if she went missing, and you asked him to describe her face; we’d never see her again. Sir P does know where Woman volunteers her time, and with what foundations, and on what days. He looks at her and thinks, “ Such a lovely thing to see someone do more than just talk about it- but actually DO.” That has won Woman lifetime admiration and respect. He knows her thoughts, and he knows the things other people wouldn’t think to ask, like she is currently re-reading both “The Feminine Mystique” and “ The Slaughter House Five”. The prism of colors in her hair, the clear pool of green water color of her eyes, the golden tan of her skin- it’s all lost on Sir P. The curvature of her neck is special only in that it supports her head, which encases her brain. Smart. Sweet. Friends. Done.

Woman is confused. She feels pulled, like salt water taffy, in five different directions. She suspects she must label herself, to place herself neatly into a little category, and that will be the persona she must wear. It fits, sure, but would she buy it? None of these descriptions define who she is...

So Woman walks around, insecure, unsure of her steps. She is fragments of people- becoming whoever you want her to be, whatever the magazines and billboards are demanding this season. Make-up and hair dye can hide any emotions she has; character can hide the rest. Woman has decided that rather than trying to make her true self-known- each intricacy: each stitch that sewed one personality trait to another creating a persona as vivid as a peacock’s tail in full regalia- no. She will switch from a single flat one- dimensional creature to another. Shift. Put on the disguise.

To you:

A temptress. Sultry. Dark, inviting, smelling of cinnamon and dreams so deep you dare not speak them.

To another:

Just another baseball fan out on the field, drinking a cold one, rooting for Guererro.

To her:

A rival for that gig at the magazine you both want.

To him:

A bombshell. A reason to go to work every day.

To that guy:

A ditz, with no opinion worth anything. She trips over her own words.

To herself:

An empty vessel, devoid of all emotion. Woman has lost all self- worth.