I take a second swipe down the board, only this time I put the full weight of myself through my arms and into my fingertip. The coffee table bites into my knees as I crouch on top of it, creating the pose of a crude downward dog, only my snowboard was straddled between my arms and knees. I dig the rectangle block into my board and slide it toward me, and the success looks like a palmful of wax pealing off into curled feathers. My arms ached the more times I do this, and the wax was spilling onto the coffee table and floor, furthering the mess. This is what success looked like when you learn to successfully wax your own snowboard. Mike snaps a photo of me wanting to send it to his brother, as we were waxing our new-to-us snowboards for the season, while his baby brother was building bunk beds; Adulting for the win. As I grinned at the phone and Mike sent the photo, I tell him that I felt I’ve waxed enough in real life and shouldn’t have wax my snowboard. We laugh, because no part of this was exactly true.
When I was headed to camp, I would spend the night prior at my sister’s house because it was close to the bus compound. She’s been dabbling in the art of an esthetician and would wax my pits for me every so often (I can see my mom shake her head as she reads this and mummer to herself that it should be referred to as underarms). I was pretty non-committal about it and Meg’s fiancé refers to the state of my hairy armpits as my hippy-pits because I would do it half as often as most people. The convenience and swiftness of waxing kept me coming back (also the free bed and seeing her three tiny humans), but when my contract ended at the mine, so did my underarm hair maintenance.
My arm pits are as French as can be and you bet your ass I
still rock tank- tops and lulu spaghetti tops. In parts of 2020, I’ve been
struggling with accepting the maintenance that’s required to be a woman in
North America; specifically what’s it means to be ladylike. I’m slowly wearing
a bra less and less, which has required going beyond my comfort zone since my
significant lack of bust has always made me very self-conscious (and a bra
actually unnecessary), I would wear bras so padded they were once referred to
as boob pillows. I must say, it’s been empowering. I’ve been feeling quite sexy
and rebellious when walking into a cold room.
Mike recently told me that his Grandma was quite the pioneer
in her day. She was the first woman to wear pants, and not a dress, to her
church. As a fairly conservative Mennonite woman, I thought this was incredibly
progressive. As he said this, I remember my own mom adamantly insisting that my two
sisters and I wear dresses to church when we were young.
As we enter 2021, closing the doors to a very difficult year, and moving into a year where we may continue to struggle, I ask why, as women, are we continuing the traditions that we don’t understand, and more importantly don’t make us feel good. Doing it out of expectation is quite simply not good enough for me anymore. I’m tired of biting my tongue out of being a well behaved lady rather than speaking my truth. I will say what I think rather than being polite. I have loud sex and loud opinions.
I know your thinking: these are such small and
insignificant things women do without question, but I feel that when we start
to second guess the small things required as part of being a woman, we will
start questioning the larger rules for this gender. Let’s not forget the requirements
of being ladylike equally define what it means to be a man (another blog in the making, I promise). I constantly catch
myself referring to a group of adult males, men but a group of full grown women
I call girls. Why is a blunt man considered a good boss, but an opinionated
woman considered a bitch? Why are women still the primary caregivers despite
both family members working full time? I remember watching a TV show where they
recollect a time when the school office calls the woman about her sick child
and she replies to the administrative office that they have called her three
times that year, she informs them that it’s time for them to reach out to her husband,
as they have both her and her husband’s number on file and promptly hangs up
the phone. Why are prominently female roles still paid less, and considered
less value then male dominated jobs?
So tell me, what are some small things, some everyday rituals
that you do simply because you are a woman? Have you thought about why you do
them? Have you asked yourself if you even like doing them? Because once we do
this, we can start asking ourselves what are larger rules and boundaries we
fallow because simply out of what’s deemed ladylike.
