If I merely chronicled my escapades without assuming the title of "Woman of the Law" I suspect that someone could mistake me for a male. Yesterday, I came home from a long day around 5 pm, put on jeans and a t-shirt, sprawled out in a lawn chair in front of my house to soak up the last bits of sunshine, all while drinking a beer and reading this month's Maxim. Later that night, we had our 2005 inaugural BBQ, during which I spent a significant amount of time discussing baseball. Today, I washed my car and then returned home to my lawn to finish reading my Maxim. I need to start acting more like a girl.
Law school prom was recently, and in the vein of acting more like a girl, I wore a killer dress, if I do say so myself. However, it required a bra constructed of several pounds of steel. It was still relatively unsuccessful, as the bra didn't fit quite right. The dress still looked pretty darned good. Never in my life have I ever been forced to do what I did that night - I stuffed my bra. To understand why this is odd, you need to know that my ... cups runneth over. Into the fourth letter of the alphabet. On the way home, I took out the socks ( - wretched and useless. I'm a novice at this stuffing thing). The next morning, when I went out to my car, I noticed my socks in the middle of the road. With tire marks over them. It was amusing, seeing what I had tried to pass as breasts the night before, in the middle of the road, with tire marks on them.
Today, in my attempt to be a girl, I did NOT watch baseball. Instead, with three incredible, witty, smart, warm, beautiful women, I went to brunch, then for a long nature walk, then for coffee, and back home again. I wore hoop earrings and a cute shirt, jeans, and some flip flops. I even put on eyeshadow. [I'm not sure who I'm trying to fool here.] Then I took Lilith (the car) to the carwash and encountered the Horrific Foam Brush from Hell, which relentlessly spewed bright pink soap suds all over the place, including all over said cute top, which now has pink splatters on it. Fuck. After that, I came back home to sit on my lawn and read Maxim. Old habits die hard.
Most of my friends are guys. This is for two reasons: 1. Affirmatively developing friendships with men eliminates any fear of romantic rejection. Because we all know once you're in the friend box, guys keep you there forever. (It's a pre-emptive control tactic. Emotionally risk free). And more importantly 2. [Most] guys are not nearly as bitchy, judgmental, and harsh to women as women are to each other.
I have developed more female friendships in law school than at any other point in my life, and I have to say that I am absolutely blessed to know the women that I know. I'm friendly with the "it" girls in the law school. But it's not often that you'll catch me at the bars, drinking mixed drinks, wearing a hootchie top, exposing a thong, and having an inch of makeup smeared on my face. It happens occasionally, but I'd rather do what I did last night - have friends over, BBQ, mix crowds, drink beer, play some tunes, throw around the football and baseball. I do flirt with men, and I do wear tops that might flatter my, ahem, features. (My flirting is subtle - like last night, I crushed on a guy over fantasy baseball - I knew it was meant to be when, after he helped me with my team, he said shyly, "Want to see my team?" and we noticed that our teams have about 1/3 of our players in common. Beautiful green eyes. Yum).
I don't stick around the bitchy girls, who climb over each other for the affections of men, who put their own dignity and self-worth at risk from time to time because they value themselves in regards to how semi-hot drunk men value them. I'm really, really lucky to have my girlz, my sistahs, who don't need none of that bullshit neither. Today's sistahlove bonding session reminded me of how lucky I really am.
Sistahlove holla to THL, who I hope has better luck with the sistahlove in the future.
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