Because I Enjoy Being It

(a girl, that is)

Dress

You wanted to be a fashion designer when you grew up.

Earlier, you wanted to be a model.

There are pictures of you, a chubby—but fierce—girl, hip thrust out in an indefinable angle, dainty (pudgy) hands dramatically splayed, in ruffles or polka dots or hideous organza.

Those days are gone. You now have a standard uniform (jeans and t-shirt), which is a far cry from the-middle-school-tomboy-years, but just as changed from your frilly, fabulous prepubescence.

(But secretly, you’re still the girl who loves to wear dresses.)

Lipstick

You’ve made a whore out of Snow White.

You think that as you stare at the prints, photos, apparently, designed to show your creativity. (Or lack thereof).

As you look at your picture, wincing upon imagining your mother’s reaction, you decide it’s probably that particular shade of crimson.

You knew the makeup artist had an in for you.


Flirting

Don’t think no one has noticed. (Or do. It makes for great romantic comedy, if celluloid would translate into real life).

Tucking your hair behind your hear, you gaze coquettishly at the object(s) of your affection. The glance lingers slowly, slowly down. Making sure you are the only person in that stall, you approach. Slowly. Sway your hips.

Once in front, a hand rises to lingeringly touch. The caress is almost obscene, but once again, you think no one’s watching, and so you make your move. Leaning forward, chest exposed, you pick up…

…the book, and gleefully skim through it.

You are an absurd little creature when it comes to bookstores.


Blushing

It’s the envy of many, especially in this white-obsessed, foreign-beauty-loving country of yours.
Clear, pale skin isn’t all that great, though, particularly if it reddens easily and you (used to) train often.

The men think you’re flushed because of them, which makes you want to stab them through the heart with the phallic symbols they’re so fond of, or shriek and pretend to be lesbian just to get them off the notion you may have a teeny (eensy) crush on them

Never mind that it’s actually true.


Period

It’s burning white vision bursting at the tops of your eyes. It’s nausea, shivering and plunging at ten thousand feet. Pulsing, pounding pressure, starting from the low centre of your body and radiating downwards until you can’t move, can’t do anything but lie limply on the bed. Every step taken is an epic battle in itself. Cold sweat becomes rivulets pouring down your spine.

Considering this happens once a month, it’s shocking how you’re considered “the weaker sex.”