It’s a wonder the day you wake up and realize that you’re not the gorgeous woman who people look at and want to go to bed with, but rather the cute woman who people look at and want to be friends with. It’s a wonder, in a good way, so far as no longer measuring yourself up to the women who always seem to be propositioned, to be watched and wanted. The ones who look always together, who don’t leave the house without color-coordinating their L’Oreal lipstick with their Nine West leather mules with their tiny Coach bags.
I can’t figure out when I stopped wanting to be the one everyone wanted. When did that happen?
Painful anger rushes through me about other things now. The last time I was seriously condescended to by a man, I laughed at him outright. He considers me to have Issues because of this, that obviously because I am short and petite and charming and, yes, “cute” that I would gladly swallow his patronizing attitude. I laughed at him. Now he’s pissed off. And so it goes.
It’s much safer to see me as a cute little girl, isn’t it?
I have learned to laugh at people who would try to put me down. Yes, this can be a good thing, but mostly it worries me about myself, because I have felt the disconnection that exists between me and Everyone Else now. I have very little tolerance for the “mistakes” of others – and that’s in quotes because I believe too many people hide behind “oops, I meant to say something else” as a way of saying whatever they want and then dancing backwards, shrugging responsibility off to fall like a fake-fur stole on worn casino carpet. O, you’re so glamorous. So fucking glamorous. Is that why you’re here at 4 a.m., dead cigarette at your lips, picking me apart?
I regularly tell people that I am “hanging in there” but really I’m not. I’m stomping the fuck out into my life, and there are indeed setbacks, but no one needs to call me “cute” anymore. If you are in my way, I will walk around you, and don’t think I won’t figure out how. I already have.