Girl Talk

I am not fluent in “girl”. I never have been. By “girl” I mean- All verbal and nonverbal cues, secret codes and unwritten rules the fair sex uses to create allegiances and relate to each other. I blame three parties for this handicap. First, I blame my father, whom I love. When I was young his hero was Spock from Star Trek. He is also painfully Germanic. I thought that if I made myself as logical and stoic as possible I would impress him. The problem is I am pretty emotional; so all the held back exuberance & hyperbole mostly came out as anger. Which is very German. At least in Northeastern WI.

Then I blame the church, for as I entered Bible College my old convictions that stoics know best merged with the fact that if a woman showed anything resembling emotion she was rendered illogical and therefore useless to all professions except those involving organs, kitchens and children. I always found this to be very offensive to children, but I guess logic and critical thinking should be reserved to those who are ready for it- thirteen year-olds. Finally, I blame my height. In the 80’s being 6’0 wasn’t as awesome as it is now (neither was being red headed- that wasn’t cool ‘til the 90s thank you very much Julia Roberts). There were no “Tall” sizes at GAP. Wait. I wasn’t cool enough for GAP. I mean that there were no “Tall” sizes at Shopko. So I tried to hide my scary weird developing body in over-sized clothing (ankles bared & red hair frizzy) and a lot of intellectual and religious talk.

Now some of you may have noticed that I have indirectly associated femininity with illogic and being emotional. Yes, I have been quite a critic of my gender. In my feminism I tried to adopt such stereotypical masculine characteristics that I became, in short, a sexist. It was a way to express that I didn’t give a damn how awkward I was. Contradiction- In secret, I was pouring over Victoria magazine and Anne of Green Gables.

I think also maybe I wasn’t born with the right "girl" hard-wiring. I never knew how to give the silent treatment. I did not have enough imagination to come up with rumors vicious enough to ostracize another girl until she transferred to another school. I certainly had no idea how to flirt. I thought boys had cooties (except for MacGyver) until my sophomore year in college. I secretly loved fashion but was too insecure to do anything about it until I was an adult. And I never developed that certain look one girl can give another just condescending and disgusted enough to send the silent message that no, you are not cutting it, and you never will, so don’t even try.

Now boys (cooties aside), boys were different. They were straight up. You could talk about Star Wars for ages. Play with cars and make snow forts. Later, I could discuss theology and philosophy with them (well, with the ones who were not scared of the six foot red-head who liked Lewis & Kierkegaard). They are also really great at just being quiet. I found my refuge, as a girl, with being “one of the guys”.

Lest I sound bitter…I know now that I created a stereotype as a defense mechanism. I did not feel that I measured up and quit. It did me harm. I missed out on a lot of rites of passage. I was lonely. I also found myself in a lot of complicated situations with guys as the lines between childhood and adulthood blurred.

I was fortunate in college to meet a few girls who saw in me something to pursue. It is interesting that girls (women) long to be pursued not just by their fathers, boyfriends and husbands, but their friends as well. We all want to know we are of value- that we are worth seeking out. Those women changed my life. I found courage in their friendship. I let out my love for fashion and art. I started to cry at movies. We had sleepovers and pigged out on ice cream. One of these girls got drunk with me after a bad breakup. We had a funeral for my sad, ruined relationship- memorializing it in a swath of wine and rum and Over the Rhine. I woke up between the coffee table and couch while Karin crooned "Suitcase" for the umpteenth time. Crawling to the bathroom I knew I was over him. I learned how to laugh a healthy laughter, and to be OK making a fool of myself.

College friends scatter all over the planet and starting over is hard amidst careers, marriage, children and everyday responsibilities. I was talking with a friend recently and we concluded that making friends in one’s thirties is equivalent to dating in one’s twenties. These are thoughts that have run through my head after coffee with a potential kindred spirit -Did I talk too much? Did she like my dress? Will she call me again? Did I seem too eager? Did I ask her enough questions? Was I too much- or was I not enough…

Perhaps I am neurotically insecure, but I suspect there are a lot of women like me who desire a community of women to go through life with. Independence and autonomy feel more like an illusion. Marriage and children, or the lack of marriage and children have changed the game. Many of us don’t have moms & aunties teaching us about breastfeeding and parenting and laundry and crafting and canning. Those things are remnants of something sacred that seems to be fading. What I once shunned, I now embrace. When I see pretty tea towels, a vintage apron, old copper pots, geraniums in a window box or an antique sewing machine I think of a time when maybe women did not feel quite so alone. When they didn’t have to do it all, all by themselves, to be considered strong. When being soft, emotionally and physically, was considered attractive.

I am not romanticizing the past. Thank God for the vote and equal pay. But I am a little pissed at the modern feminists. And Victoria’s Secret. I guess I blame them too for my illiteracy in “girl”. I think maybe they have made women very lonely in their equality and have portrayed an image that is impossible to live up to.

Maybe there is a certain dialect in “girl” I do understand. When my friends bring me dinner when I am eight months pregnant with my second child. When one of them throws me a surprise party. When a dear friend calls me late at night and honors me with her troubles.

That is a language I can understand.