I love princesses.  I love Disneyland.  I get a healthy boost of self esteem when I wear a new outfit with the perfect shoes.  I danced because I can’t catch, throw, or keep interest in a ball, plus I love tiaras and tutus.  I get overly excited over small things, especially if they are smaller versions of large things, like those tiny Tabasco bottles you get from room service at hotels.  My best non-human friends as a child were a fluffy white stuffed cat named Duchess (from Aristocats, of course) and Barbie.  Clearly, I am all girl.  You may want to even say GIRLY girl, for emphasis.  Obviously, this uber femininity means I have mastered all the female ways, right?  WRONG!

My overt prissiness, though a handy facade, really covers up a lot of messiness.  For starters, I HATE love and romance.  It makes me want to curl into a ball squirm around in awkwardness.  Maybe it’s an unknown, unresolved issue or something, but I really do not like the idea of anyone giving me complete adoration or watching two people give it to one another (“it” as in adoration… I know what some of you were thinking).  No kissing in public, no whispering of sweet nothings, definitely no grand gestures for this girl!  I like seeing little old couples walking and holding hands.  That is about it.  If you ever want to confess your love for me, do it in a text, because I don’t handle it well face-to-face.  Even writing about it, I am dying of awkwardness inside.  Eww…

I hate drama, and so instead of doing the “girl” thing of talking it out, I just disappear for a while.  In extreme cases, if you make me mad to the point that I don’t want to  ever talk to you again, I will do just that.  You’re officially dead to me.  The end.  That doesn’t happen often, but it does happen.  Typically, it will just be me not talking about the issue that bothers me with the offender.  I get over it on my own, so I don’t have to talk about it to them.  When something happens that requires heavy emotional involvement, I make a joke or disconnect.  I hate feeling deep feelings.  It’s not comfortable and I avoid it at all cost.  I’ll talk about my opinions all day long, but do NOT make me talk about my feelings.

Although I can definitely hang on a shopping trip, my preferred shopping style consists of this.  I need X.  I will go to store 1, 2, 3, and/or 4 to find it, nowhere more. I will walk in and look briefly at each store.  If it is not there, I will move on.  I can either spend a surprising amount of money in an hour, gathering up several shopping bags, or I will leave empty handed because nothing caught my eye.  I think I caused my mom a bit of a panic while shopping for my birthday gifts this year.  I wanted to go shopping for my own gifts as my present.  In under an hour, I had 4 shirts, a dress and a cardigan from 4 different stores.  I don’t scour the store, I don’t try things on, and I don’t do multiple walk throughs.  I want to cut my legs off when my mom goes to TJ Maxx because there is a once through to see everything, a second through to get what you want, and a third through to make sure you did’t miss anything, which takes HOURS.  This is why TJ Maxx is referred to as the black hole in some circles… or circles I am in when I call it that…

I do not grocery shop, nor do I cook.  I am seriously the worst girl ever.  I can cook, but cooking requires ingredients.  Those ingredients are purchased at grocery stores.  Grocery stores disgust me.  I walk in and look at all the strange folks that wander the aisles, touching their faces, picking their wedgies, and think, “These people have all potentially touched my food. Sick!”  So I end up getting my go-to package of corn tortillas and cheese for quesadillas (both have wrappers, so I feel safe, though I grab buried packages to reduce the amount of touch they’ve received).  I really do eat a lot of quesadillas.

I’ll expose my beauty regimen, if you can even qualify what I do as that.  I hate washing my hair, and I do it every three days.  The days it looks all silky and pretty, those are the days I washed it.  The rest of the days when I have it in a messy bun or complex braid?  Ya, dirty hair.  I have mad, abnormal braiding skills; I can braid upside down, in a wind storm, during the apocalypse, so even though it looks complicated when I’m done, it took me 5 minutes or less.  I wash my face with Dove soap.  I don’t use anti-wrinkle creams or toners, or anything I “should” start using at my age.  They take time, and I would rather spend my time doing something more interesting than rubbing junk on my face.  In my makeup bag, you’ll find:  concealer, tinted moisturizer (it has sunscreen in it, so at least I am doing that for my skin), mascara, eyeliner, and clear lip gloss.  I do own glitter, eye shadow, lip tints, etc.  They are in a basket under my bed.  My last purchase of those were for my sister’s wedding in April.  I do brush my teeth.  That is important!

When I look at people running or biking down the road I feel guilty.  Not because I feel guilty for not exercising, or because I envy their bodies.  I feel guilty because I should care more about how my body looks.  I love my body.  I’m comfortable with my body.  I don’t diet, and my life is exercise for me at this point, especially since my spare time is typically on the limited side.  Aren’t girls supposed to want to look like super models?  I don’t look like one, but I seem to be doing ok… maybe I’m in denial.  Either way, I’m comfortable enough to know what “Little Beach” is and to have fully participated in the culture.  That’s some serious comfort.

Finally, quick “stereo-type” gender benders for me are: I am good at math, I will watch football by myself without being forced, I prefer a good psychologically intense movie or Oscar contender over a chick flick any day, I like learning about cars, I hate Twilight, and I have had more close “guy-friends” in my life than girlfriends.  I know the “When Harry met Sally” thing about girls and guys not being able to be friends, but I manage to take on a kid-sister role very well.  Guys don’t want to date their kid-sister, so when that happens, girls and guys can be friends.

So, there you go.  There is my confession on why I am really a suck-tastic “girl.”  I feel fine as a human being, but little coquette, I am not. Appearances can be deceiving, or maybe I just think that I am deceiving you all, but the joke’s on me.  Ah well!  C’est la vie!