confessions of a not-quite tomboy
I have to admit... I've never been a girly girl. And I never will be. That didn't used to bother me, didn't used to make me bat an eye. I grew up in Iowa, as a farmgirl, interested in animals and books and nature and science. I hardly played with dolls past the age of two (instead sticking by the Legos and Breyer Horses) and flatly refused to wear dresses for all but the rarest of events.
As I've gotten older, though, I've become slightly more girly. But just slightly... I won't deny a love of flowers, pretty fabrics, cute kitchenware and a good perfume. I even like to dress up at times, but admit that it makes me feel pretty much ridiculously uncomfortable. Living in a city has made me acutely aware that I lack, utterly, a sense of style. I see women every day that I envy, in their carefully picked outfits, their feminine dresses, their lipstick and nail polish and heels.
And though I know that's not me, and never will be, I still feel that twinge of jealousy at times. Because those girls are the worshiped ones, the ones society puts on a pedestal and on magazine covers and in advertisements. The young, the hip, the thin, the beautiful. And living in a city, it's hard at times to remember that the world I fit into best - the outdoorsy hikers, the nerdy scientists, the quiet bookworms - is out there.
I struggle with such concepts on a daily basis - who I am, who I'm expected to be, and who I want to be. I let my inner critic tell me all the ways in which I could be better, and all the ways in which I come up short, compared to others. And I wonder at times, does anyone else do this? Those pretty girls, walking around town with their wavy curls and tall boots and perfectly picked jewelry - do they ever falter, in their confidence?
I may never know.
Oh, and... I figured such thoughts probably paired best with a self portrait. So here's me, reading in bed at Belle Isle Castle (yes, wearing my glasses... that's rare), during a 30-minue exposure.