Little Bits of Freedom

Last night, at work, I burped. And I didn’t excuse myself.

“Gross! Say excuse me!” One of my coworkers said.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I won’t apologize for natural bodily functions.”

This drew everyone’s attention. One coworker argued that “excuse me” wasn’t an apology. Another opined that it was the polite thing to do. Another asked me if I never excused myself. Later, when I burped in the gym, and excused myself, my coworkers that work out with me pointed it out, and praised me. I told them that, yeah, I do actually excuse myself sometimes, because that’s what society expects people to do, and there are some situations where you are obligated to follow cultural rules to the minutia.

In this instance, it seems totally absurd to refuse to apologize for–and be ashamed of–my bodily functions. I’ll admit it sounds like a childish rebellion.

But you know what else I won’t apologize for? You know what else I won’t be ashamed of?

My menstrual cycle. My body fat. That fact that I poop. The shape of my body. My sweat. Or anything else that my body does, or is.

I won’t hide my pad in a pocket when I walk to the restroom.

I won’t continually flush or play music to mask the sounds of the feces exiting my anus and dropping into the toilet.

I won’t rush for a paper towel when I start to sweat during a workout.

I won’t eat before I go out on a dinner date.

I won’t cover the scars on my arms, legs, stomach, and back.

I will not exfoliate or pick the calluses off my hands.

I won’t hold back a grimace or a groan when I fucking hurt, ow.

I refuse to stop using Icy-Hot patches to soothe my menstrual pain, just because I reek of menthol, and that’s just not how a woman is supposed to smell, good gawd.

I’m a human being, and I poop, pee, bleed, sweat, groan, and stink like everyone else. I have lived my life, so I have scars. I am a human being, so I have body fat, my own individual shape, and I eat when I’m hungry.

I refuse to hide all of that, just because of some stupid cultural, misogynistic expectations of women.

I’m Not One of “Those Girls!”

Not that long ago I would tell any guy I met, at some point, that I wasn’t one of “those girls.”

Those six words, standing alone, are completely innocuous. They mean nothing. Put them in context, however, and it was a dog whistle. They told people that I was cool. I was laid back. I didn’t do drama. I didn’t gossip. I didn’t obsess over clothes and make-up and boys. Shit, I didn’t even own any make-up. I proudly told my guy friends I didn’t even know how to put it on.

I also proudly declared that I didn’t have a whole lot of female friends. Too much trouble, I said. Too much drama.

Those six words also told men (and other girls like me!) that they could freely trash women, and I’d more than likely jump right in.

I thought that I was cool–that my guy friends liked me better. Oh, I wouldn’t have told you that–that wasn’t a conscious thought. I would have said that I simply got on better with guys. It was just how I was.

Ugh.

I was full of self-hatred. Everything feminine about me, I despised. I wore sports bras exclusively. Skirts? Fuck that shit. Bright colors? Oh, no. That shirt would be cute…if it were black. My grandmother hated taking me clothes shopping.

What did all of this posturing, self-hatred, and degenerating of my own gender yield me? A few pats on the head from a bunch of assholes.Ooh, validation! From misogynistic jerks! Yay!

What did it cost me? A lot. My self-worth, for one. And a good many friendships.

Those days are behind me now, thankfully.I’m fortunate in that I call a good many of fabulous, brilliant, funny, passionate, beautiful women friend and sister.

Every time, whether we’re sharing a pot of tea, a pitcher of beer, running errands, cooking, or talking, happiness fills my chest until it spills over in a smile. There’s nothing quite like the bond between women.

It’s freeing to be able to discuss menstruation and get a knowing smile and shared experience in return. (Much better than a face wrinkled up in disgust and an obnoxious “EW!”)

It’s gratifying to burst in the door from a date and blurt out, “Oh my god, we were having sex and I QUEEFED, and I started laughing, and I COULDN’T STOP. Then it happened AGAIN and I went completely hysterical and he finally just rolled over I CAN’T BELIEVE IT.” and laugh together ’cause she totally knows how it is.

This? Is so much more fulfilling than not being “one of those girls.”It’s much more gratifying than condescending pats on the head.

I still can’t apply eyeliner to save my life, but now I have friends that are more than willing to help, should I get the urge.