Drooling Human all the Same.

I’m like most girls in that I’d like to think I’m not like most girls when come standing, I’m exactly like most girls. I have had no qualms with this understanding. I’ve liked being a girl since my first crush at 15 and until recently I’ve felt proud that I really am like most girls. It’s been said we rule and don’t drool, after all. Except that I drool every night. Just as I thought, I’m so fortuitously different.

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I yelled down the loft to my friend Mitch asking if he’d mind if I wore the pants I showed off in my latest instagram.
“I don’t know what pants you’re talking about.”
“What the heck, Mitch. You ‘liked’ the picture.” After all, I was asking for his sake. Strangers often think we are dating based solely on the girl-to-boy ratio of our very existence and I didn’t want him to feel embarrassed strolling through a Polo-drenched neighborhood of Dallas next to a girl who could probably fit the aforementioned pastel population in her black, pleather, harem pants. There’s dressing for yourself you guys, but there is also thinking about your friends.
“I really don’t pay attention to your outfit that much. I ‘like’ your instas to support you being you.” [Aww.]
I did not come down in the Kanye West inspired pants only because they made me look like Justin Bieber. I debuted in pants I made myself, inspired by the architectural genius of Rosie Assoulin. I adore them and no one will change my mind. Underneath these wide-leg bottoms I wore a gift from God whom also responds to the name Lucy. Black, calf-hair platforms, made in Italy but that’s no matter, had I spotted them in Goodwill they would walk equally intended.
Mitch laughed, said nice pants, and we were on our way to the most intimidating dungeon anyone might encounter- girls.

Girl numero uno said “I love your pants.” To which the second clarified “that was a ‘Mean Girls’ quote.” Referring to the scene where Regina George gushes about Caty’s bracelet only to deem it fugly (if you will) behind her back. Yada, ya.
Later, the Regina George inspiree…asked to see my shoes. Raving, she said “Those are so cool. Can I take a picture?” Duh. I let her. Mitch received a snapchat of the picture with the title “what the fuck.” To which I’ll say- what the heck!
Girl number three (rather, girl I’ve known only two hours) took it upon herself to grab my boobs and comment “oouuo, you have huge boobs” highlighting something I will forever feel uncomfortable about but can’t feel comfortable feeling uncomfortable about without fear of retaliation from who else, other girls… “Shut up. You love your boobs.” Oh, yes, I forgot. I do love my boobs which is why I’m showing them off in this XXL men’s button down (and even if I were in a fecking bra, it still wouldn’t be okay you nimrod). La, ti, da. Moving on.
I’m hovered by Mitch and the boys because, well, the above. I look across the room and see the boob grabber going through my purse. Pulling out my phone and then my journal shrieking through laughter “IS THIS A JOURNAL??” like it was the most appalling thing she had ever seen.

I guess typing it out it doesn’t seem as mean as the glaze coating my eyes felt.* Story telling has never been my thing. But feeling sensitively deflated when the outfit I choose to wear is ridiculed out of ignorance has never been my thing either. It was mean though. And there was no reason to be mean.

*(Don’t worry, the tears never spilled over and I’m pretty sure my eyes look bluer than they actually are when they have a tear glaze. WINNER).

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Remember above when I said, until recently I’ve been proud of being a girl? Well, now I don’t know. And not only because of the paradigm above. But because of what followed as well. It turns out, I’m just like them. Later I could be found flinging myself to the top of an imaginary hierarchy by looking down on their one-two-three uniform of riding boots, leggings, and chiffon button-down. Basic bitches. I justified feeling okay because they had never heard of Superga. I “got over” the situation because they had no style. No style of their own at least. My style is not good (YET!! people, yet) but at least I’m swinging, I thought. All the while, here I sit…in the same dungeon, uplifting myself by shaming these girls’ choice of clothes instead of their appalling actions.

I don’t understand how girls, myself included, haven’t figured out how to support each other. I don’t understand how we haven’t figured out how to be nice. To get to know each other as individuals. To react how friends react when we make a questionable style choice- you do you [i.e Mitchy above]. And move on. We all want to believe we aren’t like every other girl but there is no environment for that to be possible. We ridicule each other for being different and we ridicule each other for being the same. Personally, I assumed I was immune to such ridicule. And that’s when I lost control of my confidence. Because it turns out…I’m just a drooling human who is not immune, nor better, and devastatingly but fortuitously the same.

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