I’m standing in the liquor store, scanning the scotches,
disappointed by the limited selection. I wanted something smokey, peaty, maybe
even a little salty. What’s with the veritable cornucopia of Dewars? Do people
even drink that stuff without soda? I’m craning my neck, scanning and
absent-mindedly bemoaning the absence of Peat Monster when the male, middle
aged attendant approaches me.
“Do you need help?”
“Hi Hi Hi! No, I’m fine, thank you, I’m just looking
for…well…actually…yes. I’m looking for Laphroaig or something like it.
Something super smokey/peaty”.
I’m suddenly aware that I was twirling my hair when I was
scanning. I’m also suddenly aware that I’m speaking in a voice that sounds like
a slightly Southern Disney Princess just after an exposition scene surrounded
by birds.
The attendant dismissively tells me that they have a bottle
that isn’t very peaty that he thinks I’d like better. I have to do a double take
because it looks like a gigantic bottle of the newest Britney Spears fragrance.
I…asked for….scotch? What is this?! I’m baffled. This man heard my request and
blatantly overlooked it to find me the girliest scotch in the store. I open my
mouth to give him a piece of mind and what comes out is:
“Oh, no, I’m sorry. It’s just, my husband definitely asked
for super peaty/smokey. I should probably just stick with Laphroaig”.
MY HUSBAND ASKED FOR PEATY/SMOKEY??? Matthew James Montana
didn’t even DRINK scotch until we started dating! I helped develop his
preference! For all I know, he may actually love a crisp, clean MaCallan and
here I am shoving Laphroaig down his throat all because I’m the conductor of
the scotch train!
So I like scotch! What’s wrong with that? I’m a married
woman. A fully grown married woman who just spent the better part of Sunday
thanking God for NFL Redzone and telling her husband to stop putting his faith
in Stevan Ridley. (Just…face facts,
Matthew. He and David Wilson are exactly who we thought they were:
and man does not win by Marshawn
Lynch alone. But I digress).
NO ME! NOT IN MY HOUSE! I’m a woman. A STRONG woman. I like
to picture my spirit animal as a bearsharktopus with phoenix like capabilities
that can shape-shift into an elegant, hot swan that just wants everyone to be
happy with the light within.
So, this. But also beautiful.... WITH FIRE! |
So why on earth do I feel the need to cover up for this
stranger? I’ll tell you why.
As the man helping me
climbs the ladder, he looks at me quizzically and casually mentions that he
hopes I brought my ID.
Glass shatter.
I really hate being told I look young. Don’t cushion me with
your hollow, “you’ll love it someday”’s because it’s frankly insensitive and
condescending to tell anyone how they will eventually feel. I watched my mom
slam doors in solicitors’ faces when they asked to speak to her mom as she
casually said, “I own this house. Bye”. I’ve spent years trying to figure out how
somehow everyone magically settles on the age of twelve when you want to say
someone looks young. It’s demoralizing
because what I hear is: you don’t look like a sexual being as a grown woman.
It used to destroy me. It’s continually frustrating that
professionally, I’m limited to characters a decade younger than me. A DECADE. I
can’t even play myself in a movie because it wouldn’t read.
At some point, though, I must have decided that if you can’t
beat em, you gotta join em. When did I develop a Disney Princess routine for
strangers? It wasn’t deliberate. Slowly, over time, I rose to meet people’s
expectations. I let people lend me an extra hand when I didn’t need it. I was
SO MUCH SORRIER than you were that this service at my place of employment was
poor. Sure, I was “sassy” but wasn’t that adorable? Listen to the mouth on that
“Little Lady”! It’s like she thinks
she’s a grown up!
I undercut myself. I apologize for my lack of experience
everywhere I go before I even open my mouth. I assume you will underestimate me
and every moment is a game time decision as to whether I want to gleefully stun
you. Maybe today I’m too tired and I’ll just let you think I can’t do it.
Not very bearsharktopus of me.
I can’t do it anymore. No, I didn’t have some Oprah moment
where I realized I was worth it. It’s simply because I can’t say things like
“My husband…” with that gimmick. It’s creepy. When I act that way and say I’m
married, the imagined perception is that I’m playing house. It projects an
image of a lost little girl onto my character, my marriage and my professional ambitions.
That makes me want to vomit. I’ve worked too hard to overcome too many things
to be limited by a tiny frame.
Princesses don’t have husbands. Queens do. Duchesses do.
Self-possessed, elegant, wise women of power and title do. Where’s THAT movie, Disney?
I don’t think that transition is about a man defining my life. I think it stems
from this concept that during the age of fairy tales, a young woman of princess
age had her beauty and charm as her primary weapon and weakness. Becoming a
queen has little to do with marriage and everything to do with owning and
coming into your own power. It’s not that marriage magically bestows that, it’s
the opposite:
You can’t successfully marry someone unless you’ve come into
your own.
I’ve spent almost five years excavating strength through
humility to uncover what kind of grown up I am. If I’m not what you expect, I’m
happy to expand your horizons. I just
won’t apologize for it anymore.