Capture
At least, that’s how it had started. But after seeing Martin last Sunday, and realizing how hurt I’d been by the fact he now viewed me as a platonic friend, I was starting to wonder if I had deeper, subconscious motives for exploring my femininity.
An example of one of my less than healthy thoughts: Maybe if I’d been sexier and more traditionally girly, Martin wouldn’t have been able to get over me so fast.
So…yeah. Not healthy. Which was why I still hadn’t looked up or read any of Martin’s interviews. I didn’t want him to be the motivation for my decisions.
Of note, I still hadn’t decided what to think about Martin’s offer of friendship or about wearing makeup and frilly garments.
Regarding the clothes, at first everything itched and I felt like my movement was restricted. After a while though, after four girl-dates, I began looking forward to glamming it up, and found myself noticing other peoples’ makeup and clothes with appreciation.
“Hmm,” she said at last, still studying her menu. “That’s a really interesting question.”
I took a sip of my water and waited for her to answer.
“Do I want the lasagna or the carbonara?”
“The carbonara.”
“Okay. Decision made.” She placed the menu on the table and closed it, giving me a searching stare. “So you want to know when I started to feel sexy or when I started wanting to feel sexy?”
“Were they different ages?”
“Yes.”
“Then tell me when you started wanting to feel sexy.”
“I guess I was fourteen.”
My mouth fell open. “Fourteen?”
“Yes. Or maybe thirteen, or twelve. I remember wanting to be sexy like the girls in the magazines.”
“What magazines?”
“Vogue, Glamour, Cosmo.”
“You read Cosmo at twelve?”
“Yes. When did you start reading Cosmo?”
I sputtered for a moment, then admitted, “Never. I’ve never read Cosmo.”
“Most of it is garbage, meaningless fluff, stupid stuff. But they sometimes have brilliant articles and short stories. Also, it’s how I learned to do the cat-eye.”
“You mean that black eyeliner thing?”
“Yeah. They had step-by-step instructions with pictures.”
I thought about this, the fact she’d been twelve when she’d first wanted to be sexy. Meanwhile I wasn’t sure if I wanted to be sexy, even now.
“Do you feel like twelve was too early? Too young?”
She shrugged, wrinkling her nose. “I don’t know. I got my period at ten. Five hundred years ago women were getting married at fourteen or fifteen. In some parts of the world they still do.”
“But in modern times and western culture, our context being the here and now, do you think it’s too early?”
Sam squinted at me. “Yes and no. On one hand, I think it’s natural to be curious about sexuality. But on the other hand, I think girls are caught in this terrible net of perpetual disappointment. We’re not really allowed to talk about sex, or ask questions about it, or be interested in it. If we are interested and if we like it, then we’re labeled as easy or sluts. If we’re not interested, then we’re frigid and repressed…we’re prudes. It’s like, we see images of women being objectified everywhere. And then we’re told to act and dress like a man at work and school, or else no one will take us seriously—even other women won’t take us seriously. Basically, women are fucked.”
“That’s depressing.”
“Yes. Yes it is. How about you? When did you first think about being sexy?”
I gathered a large breath and shook my head slightly. “I guess the first time I thought about being sexy was when I was seventeen.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. So that makes me a frigid, repressed prude?”
“Yes. Absolutely. And I’m a whorey slut. Why seventeen?”
“Honestly, it was only because I could never get Carter—”
“Your gay boyfriend.”
“Yes, my gay boyfriend who I didn’t know was gay. I could never get him to do anything but kiss me, and only in front of other people. He never wanted to do anything when we were alone together. I thought maybe it was because I wasn’t sexy.”
Sam watched me for a bit, considering this, then asked, “But…didn’t you ever want to be sexy for yourself? Just to feel good?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like, put on a new outfit or eye shadow? Not because someone was going to see you, but just because you wanted to dress up and feel pretty?”
I began shaking my head halfway through her second question. “No. Never.”
“Hmm…” she sat back in her chair and inspected me, then pressed, “And you’re sure you like guys?”
My mouth fell open in startled outrage and I leaned forward to loudly whisper, “Sam, just because I’m not a girly-girl doesn’t mean that I…that I’m—”
“That you prefer mares to stallions, I get it. I just don’t understand it. I always thought you wanted to dress that way because you didn’t like attention.”
“What way?”
“You know, frumpy.”
“I dress frumpy?”
“Kind of, actually, yes. Yes, you dress frumpy… frumpily… whatever.”
“Because I don’t wear form-fitting clothing or clothes that bare my skin and highlight my body?”
“Kaitlyn,” she gave me an oh, come on look, then continued, “baggy, shapeless clothes that cover your body is the definition of dressing frumpish. Hell, your tuxedo for work makes you look hot in comparison, as at least it shows off your ass.”
I opened my mouth to protest but then realized she was right. Baggy T-shirts, oversized jeans with the cuff cut off…on most days I dressed frumpily.
Do I want to dress frumpily? Should I even care? What is wrong with me that I never realized I dress like a frump?
As if seeing my internal struggle, Sam quickly added, “If you want to dress in baggy clothes then dress in baggy clothes. If you like it, then to hell with what everyone else thinks, including me.”
“But, I don’t… I mean…I—”
“Ladies? Are you ready to order?” Our waitress chose that moment to return to the table, giving me a brief reprieve from trying to verbally untangle my thoughts.
“I’ll have the lasagna and she’ll have the lobster ravioli.” Sam picked up both of our menus and handed them to the server. I usually didn’t mind that she ordered for me, because I always ordered the same thing.
But for some reason, this time I was incredibly irritated by her assumption I would order the ravioli. What if I wanted the steak? Or a salad?
“Actually,” I interjected, giving the waitress an apologetic smile, “I’ll have the duck ziti.”
Our server nodded, like it was no big deal, then left us to our discussion.
Sam lifted an eyebrow at me as she raised her water glass to her lips, saying before sipping, “The duck ziti, eh?”
I nodded firmly. “That’s right. The duck ziti.”
“Not the lobster ravioli?”
“No. I’m tired of lobster ravioli.”
She studied me for a long moment, replacing her glass, crossing her arms, and narrowing her eyes. I mimicked her stance and her glare.
“That’s fine. Don’t get the lobster ravioli if you don’t want it. Try duck ziti, try the steak.”
“I will.”
“But just know, no matter what you order and no matter what you eat, it’s your decision. If you want the lobster ravioli every day for the rest of your life, there is nothing wrong with that. Don’t change your order just because you think you’re supposed to, because society tells you it’s weird to order the same thing every time. You have to live with your entrée, not society, not me. You.”
“But how will I know whether I like the duck ziti if I don’t try it?”
She paused, considering me, her mouth a flat, thoughtful line. Then she sighed, saying, “I guess you won’t. I guess you do have to try the ziti. I just don’t want you feeling pressure to change, because you’re pretty awesome just how you are. It would make me sad if you started ordering steak when you really want ravioli.”
“This analogy has officially gone too far. We both know we’re talking about my tendency to hide. It doesn’t matter if it’s a closet or it’s baggy clothes. I can’t keep hiding from new things.”
“But, you’re not. Look at you, you’re all dressed up. You have your eyebrows professionally waxed and shaped. You’re in a band. You’re a singing barista. You try new things.”
“Yes. At a snail’s pace I try new things. When I feel completely safe, I try new things. When I’m with you, I try new things.” I gave her a small smile, leaned forward, and put my hand on the table, palm up. She fit hers inside mine and returned my grin.
“Sam, you’re a good friend. I want to try new things, even when those things don’t feel entirely safe. I want to try new things before I’m even certain I want to try those new things. It’s time for me to take some risks.”