On Friday, I became a woman. I could tell I was no longer a girl/tomboy because of the way I was holding my shoulders. It was obvious from the way I walked in my black clingy dress: curvy, unashamed. Anyone could tell I was a woman from the way I bought a single croissant for my breakfast (not a sticky bun or even two), kept it in the bag and just pulled off small parts of it while walking to the hairdresser's. In the salon, I didn't apologise for myself, make self-deprecating remarks, worry that I didn't measure up - a woman wouldn't, would she? I went for lunch with my sister; we sat on a sunny terrace with our sunglasses on; I had the most womanly Chef's Salad with a glass of white wine.
Then today I was that girl again.
I woke up with a stupid cold. A woman would have remembered to take her vitamin supplement. A woman wouldn't have wanted her baby's fruit mush so badly that she shared it with him, knowing perfectly well that the spoon was full of creche germs and snot by then. A woman would have found a better way to amuse her kids than to put that snotty baby's dummy in her mouth.
Taking Jack to the swimming pool, I had forgotten my flip flops and refused to go outside the changing rooms with him. A woman would have remembered them. In fact, a woman would not have needed them, being immune to verrucas and not prone like a girl. A woman would not have told her six year old to go shower all by himself, surrounded by other kids and their supportive parents.
I phoned my sister and had a fight with her. A woman would not have done that. A woman would either not have invited her and her family for a meal and Eurovision party, or if she had she would not have phoned to say it was only going to be sandwiches because she was going to the school fete first and would need more than just dos cervezas to get through it. A woman would have been all composed (and sober) at the stove, pretty in an apron, cooking a fast yet tasty meal. The girl thought
She doesn't want me or my company, she only wants the food. When's the last time she cooked me a meal? I would have got good bread and nice cheese. There would have been alcohol. Why doesn't she love me enough?
A woman would have known that a sister can also be a girl. A girl in the middle of exams and probably thinking
But she was going to cook me a meal. Why doesn't she think I'm more important than a stupid school party and dos cervezas? Doesn't she love me enough?
A woman would have worn her favourite dress to the school party. She would have got it in the wash on time and arrived looking gorgeous, curvy, unashamed. She would not have pulled a pair of jeans from the bottom of the pile of clothes in her bedroom, added a shirt that's slightly too small across her boobs and a scarf for warmth around her sore throat. If that woman had turned up at the school fete in that perfect dress, the school gate mummies would have reconsidered their evening plans to go out for a meal without her. They would have said "Why don't you come along, you gorgeous, unashamed, curvaceous woman, with your perfect husband and your perfect children?"
A woman would not have cared if she hadn't been invited of course. It's not as if I'm going steady with any of them. I've met some of them without all the others in tow.
But why don't they love me enough? Is it my jeans? Is it the scarf? Is it because I had a third baby? Is it because I can't turn up on Friday afternoons to chat in the park any more?
A woman would be asleep right now, happy in her post-Eurosong party alcoholic daze. Not like this girl, who slept all the way through Eurosong, now sitting up in the middle of the night, unable to sleep, snotty, stewing, a pile of tissues on the ground next to her.
I don't like this girl. Tomorrow, I want to be a woman again.