An ode to my kind of femininity.

Despite my typical barrage of complaints, there are some things I really relish about being a woman.

I'll readily admit that I enjoy the material aspects of femininity especially well: the clothes, the trillions of shades of fingernail polish, the ritual application of eyeliner and mascara in the morning. I like the fragrances (sweetpea, vanilla, laundry detergent) and the textures (tulle and satin and silk) and the colors that are widely associated with femininity (lemonade pinks, lilac purples, peach, cream, and crimson; the rich, florescent palates of rose gardens and sunsets). I love some of the domestic skills with which women are often associated, as well--constructive, artful and ritualistic activities, like cooking and knitting and nesting and decorating, that form a common, cross-language bond between mothers and sisters and girlfriends around the globe.
And on occasion (although certainly not always) I get a real kick out of the subtle, tight-knit exclusivity of being a chica amongst other chicas. I am endlessly amused by the fact that even the most ostensibly innocent woman invariably holds at least a few of her man's marionette strings close at hand, her moments of puppetry so skillful that he rarely registers her influence or intervention at all. Brava! Encore! On with the show...

It's undeniable that I sometimes bitch about the inequity of living with a female body, so temperamental and tumultuous and desperate for fattening foods at the end of each month. But ultimately, there are really delightful aspects of everyday womanhood that I can't imagine can be equally paralleled in men's lives. Like crooning with Joni Mitchell in pitches a guy couldn't hope to reach, or purring with Cat Power in a timbre no man can ever seem to manage. Or being able to move gracefully in all manner of footwear, including Wellington boots; or murmuring purry silliness into a lover's ear; or privately lusting after a male musician who shreds the fiddle in some local band. Buying matching skivvies just for the satisfaction of matching; or intuitively finding the gifts people have always wanted, and wrapping them with frilly domestic prowess. Writing prettily. And, perhaps best of all, knowing that there'll always be some little old man willing to help me find the ripest cantaloupe or the healthiest head of lettuce in the produce section.

Good stuff, that.