Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

I'm salivating over heels. Over impractical heels that I can only wear with one dress I own.

When did I become that girl?

And when did it start to feel sodamngood?

I have been shunning my L.A. childhood for as long as I can remember. Even before I moved there, I sneered at it in disgust, vowing I would never give in to the clothes/shoes/handbag/shiny things hysteria. It is. Not. Me. My weekend uniform was a long sleeve shirt, denim skirt, and flip flops. I frequently wore eyeliner, mascara, and nothing else on my face (except for lip balm). Actually, I still do this a lot.

I find myself wondering how much of that was just resistance to a place I didn't want to be and a lifestyle I didn't want to lead. I took pride in being different. I was from NorCal. I was the tomboy.

And there is a certain amount of pride in standing strong against the waves of scented girliness pressing in from all sides. Lipgloss, perfume, and Gapbody products all have a heady scent of commercialized femininity, but as a teenager, it didn't appeal to me. I wanted to be my own girl, and have my own type of femininity. Yes, I wanted to smell nice and have smooth skin, but I also wanted to kick box and take karate. Yes, I had my toe shoes and beautiful leotards (there was this maroon one that was half velvet that I still dream about...) but I also took guitar with a stoner teacher (Oh Scott...he would frequently say things like, "Yeah, try tripping on DayQuil and listening to Vivaldi...it will blow your mind!") and watched movies like, "Half Baked" and "Empire Records" and "Grosse Pointe Blank". I eschewed the Los Angeles Hollywood stereotypes because I didn't want to be that girl: the girl who had more in her handbag than in her brain.

As I moved through life, spending more time and more time with girls, (I studied for two years in an all girls school in Jerusalem, and then went to Stern College, an all womens Jewish university. There was so much estrogen, you could have harvested soybeans) I questioned my committment to going against the grain. What was the harm in indulding my girlier tendencies? What was I so afraid of?

I think the answer is that in giving in the the things I so resisted during high school, I was redefining parts of myself that I thought were solidified--and in some cases, completely overhauling routine and comfort levels to explore what might continually make me more satisfied. The prompt for self-exploration comes from the most surprising--and sometimes, the silliest--places, and in my case, it was coming from hair products, high heels, and very shiny eyeshadow. I felt a bit silly to have existenial angst come from squealing over a pair of patterned turquoise open toe espadrilles. But there it was. I was forced to really think about my reluctance to participate in some admittedly shallow, but ultimately harmless feminine rituals. I surprised myself by tracing my reluctance and unearthing insecurities I'd thought I'd left behind. I was holding on to old rituals as a sense of comfort, my role of tomboy like Linus's security blanket, something I clutched to prevent the past from getting away from me and fully stepping into myself. Tomboy was my shield, but it was also my mask. And as I slowly allowed that part of myself to become alive, I realized that, much to my dismay, I actually took comfort in indulging in all (well, most) things feminine.

I do still like my action flicks, and I like to horse around and tell dirty jokes. I still register astonishingly low on the girl-shriek Richter Scale, and I don't put on tons of makeup every day. I'd rather sleep the extra ten minutes then look like I put the extra ten minutes pulling my outfit together. But that's just me, and it will always be me.

But it's fun to realize that "me" is also sometimes saying things like, "Oh my gosh, those shoes are GORGEOUS!" or "I wanna make cupcakes!"

Randomly craving: Cupcakes, sake`, veggies and dip

How to Cook in Under 3 Minutes

Me: my soup just exploded all over the microwave. i didn't know soup did that

A: yeah, don't superheat liquids

no more than 2 mins ever, and better 1 min, stir, 1 min

Me: your advice comes about 3 minutes too late

Randomly craving: tomato soup, ice cream, throat lozenges

Work It

I like to work out. I really do. Despite my inherent laziness and constant complaints of "I'm tired," there is something nice about going to the gym, working up a sweat. Something...I dunno. Lofty.

I however, have been bested at the gym numerous times by an instructor I like to call, "The Dumbbell Nazi."

The Dumbbell Nazi (DN) for short, was nicknamed thus in my head after ordering us to do a move in class which, I promise, looked like a salute that would put the German army, circa 1930, to shame. The DN is a Dominican mamacita; she struts into class with an attitude and a voice that (literally) screams, "Do not mess with me. I will eat your little white butt for breakfast."

Which is a threat I don't take lightly. This woman is built like a tank and could no doubt consume me, bite by hearty bite, for breakfast. And wash it down with cold, hard fear.

This lady has the strangest ability to take my body from zero (I don't feel a thing in my abs/butt/thighs/earlobe) to 160 (Who lit my entire body on fire?) in under .5 seconds.

And, oddly, here's where the real trouble starts.

I have an insane quirk that not many people know about: when I'm in tremendous amount of pain, when my body being pushed to its physical limit...I start to giggle like a maniac.

Hyena-like.

It's odd and I just can't stop.

I live in fear of the day when the DN notices. I can hear her voice, Dominican inflection and all, "You laughing, mami? You laughing? Hang on, I'll give you something you can REALLY laugh about..."

And then she'll proceed to make my legs fall off. Or something.

It kind of reminds me of a dance teacher I had when I was 13. Her name was Dierdre. She was the most terrifying 5'2" I had ever seen. I had just achieved toe shoe status and was building up strength in my feet. However, I had two major things working against me: 1) Weak metatarsals. It's some part of your foot (or an alien planet, I was never sure), and apparently mine was weaker than most. Normally that doesn't matter, but when you're trying to lug your entire body weight onto about three square inches of toe space, every ligament counts. Go team, go! 2) I am not a gazelle, featherweight, or otherwise malnourished/size zero. I would walk into this class a normal person, and through the hour and a half slowly be worn down into a sweaty, thirsty, desperate version of myself. As I tried not to lean my entire body weight on the barre to give my aching feet some relief, Dierdre would come up behind me and whisper in my ear, "Are you compensating for your feet by using every muscle, Dalia? Are you? Are you?"

No ma'am. And this isn't sweat dripping from every pore. I just naturally glisten.

The truth is, I came out of that class a much better dancer. Just as I have come out of every class with a difficult teacher exponentially better than when I went in: a better writer, singer, athlete, scholar (of sorts).

I learn best from those that push me. I work the hardest for people who gently shove me back against the fluff of my own assumptions, who put me in front of a mirror and force me to back up my transparency with effort and substance. I glided through most parts of school, teachers taken in by my sunny attitude and sense of humor; but the teachers that made me work so hard that my brain was falling out of my ears were the teachers I respected, and worked harder for in kind. I always have, and I always will. If they respect me enough to look me in the eye and take stock of what's actually there, then I will respect them enough not to waste their time. Or mine.

So when the DN struts into class the next time, I'll probably have to suppress my nervous giggles and hope that she lets me live. Because if she does, I might find myself bettered (or just forced to walk like a cowboy for a week afterwards).

Randomly Craving: chips, salsa, sushi, brownies