I am not girly. The statement declared ad nauseum might be an indication of denial had I said it in a therapy session. What am I denying? Perhaps that I do wish I were a girly girl? That truth is too awful to accept!
This morning, as usual, standing in front of my closet wondering what to wear, something hit me. Directly in front of me, a pile of neatly folded white tops with intricate lace/embroidery details. Horror of horrors! How did that happen? I know of my hoarding tendency, but when did I manage to squirrel away this many lacey tops? And all the while saying things like I am not comfortable with them?! I unfolded and examined each. Every piece still appears as exquisite as they day I bought it. So I put one on, and sure enough my body initiates a rejection. It was awkward, it made me look fussy, like an overgrown Shirley Temple, or a 18th Century old maid in a body length night gown (speaking of which, I remember possessing one such piece, oops). I tore the piece off my body and slipped into something dark, with not a trace of needlework. Immediately I feel comfortable, in my elements, and safe.
The truth is I am quite bipolar in clothing preferences. Part of me whats this dark allure, the other an innocent girl. There is no middle ground, nor is there an acceptable hybrid. So I swing from one pole to another, most of the time a darker figure. You can catch a glimpse of the sweet one in vacation photos. These pieces are like postcards I write myself, kept not because of their beauty, but as mementos.