Being a chick

Once again tonight, I am feeling a bit perplexed over my complete inability to be a girl.

Things that reassure me of my own femininity:

Well, the big one, I've had a baby. Nuff said.
I never wear trousers to work, I am truly more comfortable in a skirt.
As far as my shoes go, I believe the higher the heel, the better.

And...umm....that's all I got.

I don't know how to use makeup, I don't know how to do stuff with my hair, I can't put sweet kittenish outfits together or dedicate the time for personal grooming that I assume most women do without thinking. I would LIKE to have those skills, but somehow I didn't get the genes for it.

Now, take my aunts, or my mother. She was 4'9" and 85 lbs. She spent most of her life forced to shop in the children's section, but the woman was undeniably A Woman. She had style, she had class, she had the perfect jewelry, even if she was just ironing in the living room. And this was not an affectation, she presented herself this way without even thinking about it.

I am the tallest, gangliest woman on my maternal side, at a shocking and unthinkable 5'3". Maybe that's why I just can't "get" this girl stuff, I'm too freakishly tall.

Usaully it doesn't bother me, this genetic mutation I have. But every now and again, I wish I knew how to do those girlie things. Hell, I wish I considered shaving my legs a priority. (it's not a priority because, umm, I have several long skirts.)

I wish my Husbandly One could come home to a vision of womanly loveliness...but he can't. He's got ME.

Oh well, he comes home to me, anyway. Maybe he doesn't mind my awkward, gangly ways as much as I do.