Boxes on the Hillside. Lines in the Sand

Boxes on the Hillside. Lines in the Sand

Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes made of ticky tacky.
Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes all the same. -Malvina Reynolds, Little Boxes

“Pretty open” has apparently expressed an interest in meeting me but there is a snag. The person who approached me wanted to introduce us at “game night”.  Game night, as I understand it, is when you get a bunch of friends together to play board or card games. I can think of nothing more trying than playing board games. Except, perhaps, playing board games with people I barely know under the pretense that we are all geeks here so we must love board games. What’s more, I am being set up with one of the attendees. I’ve been going back and forth on which level of hell this is. When I told her I hated game night, she countered with Cards Against Humanity. Her husband is obsessed; her words not mine. I play Cards Against Humanity on occasion-with friends. I don’t play that game with strangers. I went back to my acquaintance and told her that I would rather meet him for lunch or coffee. Boring though this may be, meeting in public is infinitely safer for me on a number of levels. And while I am not one of those women who obsesses over her safety, I’m not an idiot.

I’m losing interest. When she introduced him she thought we’d hit it off because he’s in IT, he likes sci-fi, he likes Dr. Who, he likes good food and wine, and he’s generous and kind. Well, I like science fiction but it isn’t the only thing I read. I like Doctor Who but I haven’t watched the new incarnation much because, frankly, I don’t care for it very much. I’m very competitive and don’t like to lose. Most board games are dull. My preferred card games are poker and bridge, although I have to learn to play bridge over again. He likes good food and wine, to which I say who doesn’t. Of course he’s generous and kind. You wouldn’t be friends if he weren’t. I have people in my life whom I have known for years who wouldn’t dream of setting me up and yet a person I met eight months ago wants to set me up with someone? I should be flattered but it makes me very uncomfortable. It feels presumptuous. It feels weird.

I can only guess that in her mind I fulfilled the requirements for nerd and I must like nerds. I understand the need to find your own tribe. I mentioned once before how feminism and punk saved my life. When you’re young finding your people is essential to survival. Now that I am older I have family, not people. At my age, my tribe should be middle-aged women with grown children who might be out of the house. It’s like when a friend of mine told me we needed to mend fences and attend activities sponsored by my synagogue’s womens’ group.

-What do women talk about when they get together, I asked?
-Their kids, their grandkids, and their husbands, she said. She was very matter-of-fact.
-How can I participate in that conversation, I asked? I have none of those things.

She went on to say that if we all went, there would be women of all ages and backgrounds. No, I told her. We go where we will fit in, where we feel welcome. I have sat in silence many times as women around me discussed their children, grandchildren, schools, married life, toilet training, finding childcare. I learned early on to take a book to outings so I have something to read as I will have little or nothing to say. I can’t even discuss what’s on TV as I don’t have a television. I read, I watch movies, I draw, I exercise, I go to museums and galleries, I’m a street photographer, I visit friends, I listen to the radio, I cook and bake for fun. I know there are things on this list that I share with most other women but when women get together they talk about their children, their grandchildren, and their husbands. Some would argue that the impetus to find common conversation is on me to which I ask if you’ve ever killed a conversation? I have. Once conversation strays from what most people find familiar, it dies.

In order to be desirable we must comparmentalise ourselves, fit ourselves into ever-smaller, increasingly tidy packages fit for categorisation and consumption. To be a well-rounded person with varied interests, conflicting emotions, and viewpoints is messy. We value simplicity over complexity, purity over sulliedness, the explicit over the implicit or the subtle. Mystery has no place. We spend so much time and effort isolating ourselves we don’t want to do the hard work of actually connecting. If I declare myself to be femandrogynous, heterosexual, Sephardi Jewish, punk, over-educated, artist, elite athlete, then who is like me? I have drawn my lines in the sand but who is willing to cross? Who is willing to stay?

I am not saying we should not be who we are, that we should not declare who we are. But we should be the ones to define ourselves and declare our findings as we see fit, and we should be prepared to face the consequences of our declarations, or non-declarations. I know a bisexual woman who lives as a married, heterosexual woman because she does not want to be defined by her sexual preference, she says. She has told no one but me. That is her choice, but her reasons are more complex than her statement belies.  She belongs to a very conservative, heteronormative faith.  She does not want to be defined by her sexual preferences because to do so would make her a social outcast. I know many for whom the struggle to be who they truly are has been arduous and ongoing. Many times it is either because the language finally exists to describe who I am or the language has always existed but now has been codified.

As for myself, I have always been and always considered myself to be highly androgynous. When asked in a college class if I had ever thought about what I would be like were we the opposite sex (be nice, this was over 20 years ago and gender was binary, there was no intersectionality, and privilege applied to the affluent), I said that I couldn’t imagine myself being a different person because I am that person. It’s not that I couldn’t see myself outside of my female self, it’s that I still saw myself as being a rational, intelligent, passionate, compassionate man just like I saw myself as a rational, intelligent, passionate, compassionate woman. The only differences I saw were purely physical. I’d probably be taller. I’d have a penis and testicles instead of a vagina, uterus, and ovaries. The trappings would be different but the person would be the same. It is only now that androgyny is spoken of, but legally recognised, as a non-binary gender identity. There are femandrogynes-androgynes who feel more feminine than masculine. There are mascandrogynes-androgynes who feel more masculine than feminine. Versandrogynes/Neutrandrogynes who feel a mixture of both or none at all. That there is language beyond an aesthetic is all new to me.

If I have the outward trappings associated with androgyny and believe that I would be the same person regardless of whether I was born with one x chromosome or two, does that make me androgynous?  If I declare it, is it true? Is that enough? Does being cisgendered mean that you necessarily buy into everything that comes with what is ascribed to femininity and masculinity? Including gender roles? Are we still basing notions of gender on outdated norms? Are they outdated if they still exist and persist? When women are labeled as androgynous it is usually for aesthetic reasons. We tend to be thin, white, some would call us butch or soft butch. The default aesthetic is masculine. Dominant culture makes all sorts of assumptions about our sexual preferences, because what heterosexual man wants anything other than what is typically feminine. That it could be anything other than aesthetic is absurd. Unless, of course, these are all women who secretly wish to be men. I don’t.

Once in bed, the man I was seeing pulled me on top so I could “feel what it was like to be a man.” I stopped and said I don’t need to know. It was as though power was gendered, that a man’s place was on top, and perhaps it was to him. I am powerful whether I am on top or whether I am enveloping the man I want. I feel gorgeous in a dress or a skirt and heels and I feel sexy in a shirt and tie; they are different but not unrelated feelings. The dovetail nicely with my introverted/domme-huntress nature. (I use feminine pronouns.) Not that the introvert wears dresses and the huntress wears ties. It speaks more to the duality of my nature. It’s a duality that I find hard to reconcile sometimes. The introvert is not terribly interested in meeting IT professor. The domme-huntress is very interested in pursuing the neurobiologist whose late father was a rabbi. The introvert keeps the domme-huntress from texting the neurobiologist and asking him out to a movie. The domme-huntress gets the introvert out of her shell. To me there is nothing inherently masculine or feminine about any of this. I just is.

 

Blessed Be My Ability to Define Myself

Blessed Be My Ability to Define Myself

Blessed be my brain – that I may conceive my own power
Blessed be my breast–that I may give sustenance to those I love.
Blessed by my womb–that I may choose to create what I choose to create.
Blessed be my knees–that I may bend so as not to break.
Blessed be my feet — that I may walk in the path of my highest will.” -Robin Morgan

I hate that poem mostly because the poet has fallen back on the motherhood standard to define woman. If that’s how she defines herself that’s one thing. A noted composer set this poem to music for the choir in which I sing. I resent it every time we sing.

After a blissful Saturday in New York which held me over for a couple of days, I came crashing back to Earth on Tuesday evening. They were an ordinary couple. He was lightly tanned, immaculately groomed, greying at the temples. She was lightly tanned, immaculately groomed, and pregnant. He looked like he was my age. She looked like she was around the age of my ex-husband’s girlfriend. After that it seemed like I could not escape women talking about how tough their pussies were. The example most of them invariably used was childbirth. A friend of mine bragged about how her pussy could take a pounding going in and coming out. She talked about the size of her son’s head at birth. In “Hit Like a Pussy” the author also uses the birth of her daughter as proof of the strength of her vagina.  To her credit, the author does state that, “I would never equate reproductive status with womanhood, because, just, no. Nor would I ever diminish the ways of becoming a mother that don’t involve pushing a human person through a vagina. So let’s put birth aside for a moment, because pussies are intended to do all kinds of things—primarily whatever their owners choose to do with them.” But it’s already too late. In “putting birth aside for a moment” she has already established the standard by which all other experiences will be judged. The same with the Village Voice review of Ali Wong’s Baby Cobra. Ms. Wong talks about wearing, “a frozen diaper because her pussy needs to heal from the baby’s head shredding it up.” Pregnancy and birth are the standard. Surgical instruments shredded my vagina and uterus. I used pads soaked in witch hazel on my vulva. I found out about that remedy myself. No one told me. I was sent home. Better luck next time.

The first surgery, a myomectomy, happened when I was 29. I don’t like to say I had my first surgery because it makes it sound like I elected to have surgery. I did not “choose to create” the tumours that invaded my uterus. When you read the literature on fibroids, writers can be a little cavalier. They are the most common benign tumour of the pelvis in women (Tintinalli’s Emergency Medicine) . Around 25% or white women and 50% of black women have fibroids during their reproductive years. Somewhere in the first paragraph you will see “Leiomyomas decrease in size during menopause,…” and “Most fibroids/myomas/leiomyomas are asymptomatic.” (Tintinalli’s Emergency Medicine, Williams Obstetrics, Current Medical Diagnosis & Treatment). Given their ubiquity, their general lack of symptoms, and the fact that they all but disappear after menopause it’s no wonder that medicine can be a little nonchalant even when someone who is symptomatic, like I was, comes through the door. I have heard all three of those facts from just about every physician I have seen. And my answer has always been, I am symptomatic. I am 30 years away from menopause. Watchful waiting is not acceptable. I have had my share of the caring and the cavalier over the course of my treatment.  The first surgery removed three small tumours.

After my first surgery, my gyn left her private practice and went into public health. I hunted around for another doctor and eventually found one. Symptoms were back with a vengeance within a couple of years: severe pain, bleeding through tampons/pads and clothes, pressure, bloating. She used real estate as an analogy for my suffering-location, location, location-put me on a progesterone-only mini pill and stopped taking my calls. I was suffering from morning-sickness like symptoms that lasted through lunch and my periods lasted three weeks out of four. Frustrated, I made an appointment with another gynecologist. Several ultrasounds later, I say several because I had at least two transvaginal ultrasounds that I can recall and I don’t know how many other ultrasounds, she found another two tumours and referred me to a surgeon who had an office upstairs. he looked at the ultrasound results and did a couple of his own and determined it would be a quick surgery-removing no more than three tumours, maybe four. When I came to in the recovery room he was there waiting for me. I removed 25, he said. That’s a lot, I slurred. Yes, it is, he replied and left. Later at the follow-up appoinrment I asked how the surgery went. It was tedious, like plucking grapes, he said. Would you rather have tedium or excitement in the OR, I asked? Give me tedium any day, he replied. I was 34 years old.

The symptoms returned when we were living in the intermountain west. Time and again, I got in the car for the two-hour drive to Spokane to see the gynecologist. The latest ultrasounds showed one tumour that was about the size of an orange holding court at the top of my uterus. It needs to come out, he said. The tumour? Of course, I replied. No, the uterus, he sighed. I hope you don’t mind, but I’m going to get a second opinion, I told him. I emailed copies of my films to my surgeon back in New York, who emailed me back the next day and said, if you can get here I will operate. I flew back in the fall. The pre-surgical consultation in his office was unforgettable. Marty the surgeon and his surgical resident hovered over my naked body as he proceeded to explain how they were going to “slice me open, yank the uterus through the muscle tissue, pop the top off, take out the tumour, sew me up, tuck me in, that’s all she wrote.” I’m right here, I said. I know, he said, you’re also one of my favourite patients. You think I have this conversation in front of all of my patients? He removed seven tumours, including the one that was the size of an orange. I My abdomen was distended and sore. I had a six-inch incision in my abdomen and an umbilical incision that changed the depth an shape of my navel permanently. A few weeks later I went back for a post-operative follow up and he found two more tumours on the ultrasound. Please let me take them out, he begged, I don’t want to send you home with more tumours. I agreed and I was wheeled into the operating room the following day. He removed 10 more tumours. I had my third and fourth surgeries when I was 36.

This was about the time when I started to make jokes about have more tumours than children or more instruments in my vagina than lovers. I laughed about it then, I don’t so much now. I knew after the second surgery that my chances of conceiving were virtually nil. I just did not think there was any recovering.  42 tumours covers a lot of real estate when your uterus is small. My ex, however, was not convinced. My periods were still long and very heavy, but he was undeterred. When we moved to Philadelphia and I started being treated at the fertility clinic. My gynecologist and I created a birth plan: three month bedrest, c-section, hysterectomy. Very simple!  When things started to go wrong, I had a hysterosalpingiogram. This is a hysterosalpingiogram:

  • You will be asked to lie on your back with your feet placed as for a pelvic exam. A device called a speculum is inserted into the vagina. It holds the walls of the vagina apart to allow the cervix to be viewed. The cervix is cleaned.
  • The end of the cervix may be injected with local anesthesia (pain relief). You may feel a slight pinch or tug as this is done.
  • One of two methods may be used to insert the dye. In one method, the cervix is grasped with a device to hold it steady. An instrument called a cannula is then inserted into the cervix. In the other method, a thin plastic tube is passed into the cervical opening. The tube has a small balloon at the end that is inflated. The balloon keeps the tube in place in the uterus.
  • The speculum is removed, and you are placed beneath an X-ray machine.
  • The fluid slowly is placed through the cannula or tube into the uterus and fallopian tubes. The fluid may cause cramping. If the tubes are blocked, the fluid will cause them to stretch.
  • X-ray images are made as the contrast medium fills the uterus and tubes. You may be asked to change position. If there is no blockage, the fluid will spill slowly out the far ends of the tubes. After it spills out, the fluid is absorbed by the body.
  • After the images are made, the cannula or tube is removed.

The hysterosalpingiogram was clear as could be. Not long after the hysterosalpingiogram, the doctor finally listened to me and ordered a hysteroscopy. I had been concerned about the condition of my uterus all along. My concerns, sadly, were justified. As the camera slipped through my cervix into my uterus I saw one large and countless small lumps being fed by an intricate network of capillaries. As he pulled around the large tumour what remained looked like the surface of the moon, grey, lumpy, lifeless. It’s not supposed to look like that, is it, I asked. No, he replied. It needs to go, I said. Yes, it does, he replied and he patted my foot. A month or so later I was recovering from a robot-assisted laparoscopic hysterectomy when my ex looked at me and said, I love you very much. No, you don’t, I thought and fell asleep. When I saw my doctor later, away from my ex, I chided him saying he didn’t provide any pictures. He laughed and said your uterus was shot. There was nothing left. I read the pathology report. I had diffuse uterine leiomyomatosis a condition where the myometrium is replaced by countless, benign smooth muscle tumours. It’s a rare condition with only 30 reported cases by 2001. I had also developed adenomyosis a condition where the uterine lining breaks through the muscle wall into the myometrium where it grows and breaks down during the course of the normal menstrual cycle. On top of that I had also developed Asherman’s Syndrome. Asherman’s is rare and preventable and my surgeon followed every prevention protocol, estrogen supplements and an interuterine balloon, but to no avail. Ashmerman’s is also treatable but not in my case. Having had close to 50 tumuors removed in 10 years, there was nothing to salvage.

I do not know what it’s like to give birth, but I know what physical pain is. The difference between you and me, a friend of mine once told me, was that when it was over I had a baby. Your pain kept you from bleeding to death. Your uterus had to work as hard as mine just to stop the flow of blood in your menstrual cycle. I got an epidural, you got Advil. For the last half of my marriage, I was changing a super plus tampon hourly. I kept extra clothes at work and in the car. I slept wrapped in a towel, if I slept at all.

I have secret knowledge. I know things most women (and men) will never know. I am an expert at getting blood out of anything (hydrogen peroxide gets blood out of just about any fabric). When a women talks about the pinch of a cervical injection or suture, I know that pinch. I know how to get out of bed with a six-inch abdominal incision and I even used that knowledge to help a friend get out of bed after an emergency c-section. I know how uterine contractions build to a plateau and drop off; how the pain subsides but doesn’t go away completely until the job is done. I know what it is to have to consciously breathe through pain. It infuriates me when politicians insist that women who need abortions get transvaginal ultrasounds, because it’s being used to induce guilt and shame. I know what it is to clean a pool of your own blood. I know how to scoot down an x-ray table using my arms because my vagina is full of surgical instruments and I can’t bend my knees. I know what it is to live with someone in total denial. I know what it is to be with someone who is so focused on his wants he has no regard for your health and welfare. I know what it is to be tossed aside figuratively for something any 12-year old can do, but not literally because he doesn’t want to be the bad guy. I know what it’s like when it’s “your fault”. I also know it is tender and soft and warm like any lover’s. I have enough scars on my abdomen that I look like I survived a knife fight, and you know what? No one fucks with me at the gym. I know my pussy is strong as hell because it is battlescarred like any mothers’.  I know these things because I am strong as hell and tender and soft and warm. I know what it is to define yourself as a woman using nontraditional avenues. I also know that you pay a heavy price, maybe not immediately, maybe not forever, but you pay.

 

Mother, May I?

Mother, May I?

I saw my parents on July 4th weekend. The  build-up is usually the worst part of their annual summer visits. I find it’s best to get the initial visit out of the way early that way I get a better sense of what the rest of the summer holds. Usually she greets me with a comment about my skin: oh, your skin looks great or oh, your skin’s breaking out again. She’d comment on my hair. When it was long she’d ask, you’re wearing it curly? When it’s short, like now, she says, it’s a little short. Why don’t you grow it out? That bob was so cute. Then it was my clothes. I got on the train and got off in 1987. One day she said that she still saw my sister and I as 7 and 4 (respectively). My heart sank a bit. That was probably the last time my mother was happy.

As she has gotten older she has retreated into a world of her own making. A black and white world of moralistic assertions and harsh judgment. She still asserts that we can talk about anything. I just have to steel myself to either icy silence, harsh criticism, or crass cluelessness. It’s a trap into which I fall continuously. I so want to believe I can tell her anything, so I do. I tell her what I see, what I hear, what I experience only to be met with derision.30 years you’ve wanted to be treated like men, no wonder they don’t want commitment. She can’t be that conservative or she wouldn’t have slept with a married man. . If you’re going to sleep with him go ahead, but don’t be surprised when he dumps you. My declaration that I was not getting married again but was looking forward to a full and rich sex life was met with a set jaw and a sigh. It was then that I realised that my mother was not a feminist and modern women were sluts. I would have to watch what I say around yet another person. That I never, ever fit her mold of proper female behaviour. That what I wanted to be more than anything else was a normal woman.

She and my sister met me at the train station. She made a comment about how bright my hair was these days, nothing about the length. We’d had that discussion on the phone two weeks earlier. It had gone like it usually does. She said nothing about my skin or my clothes. She didn’t ask how I was doing. It was all very light and breezy. My father, who has also outgrown his filter, told me about his medication-induced gynecomastia lifted his shirt and showed me what was left of his breasts just as my mother walked into the kitchen. She had a fit and started yelling at him. He bowed his head and shuffled his feel and tried not to laugh. She stormed off in a huff. I could not help but wonder if the elaborate fantasy she created where I became her sexual rival had disappeared completely. Later she told my sister and I that she thought daddy was slipping.  She told us how one day he nearly went for his walk wearing two pairs of boxer shorts. That he had become forgetful, argumentative, irritable. Around us she’s called him daddy for as long as I can remember, like we’re still seven and four. Having been on the receiving end of her disapproval for so long, I found it hard to swallow.  He’s been getting progressively angrier for the past decade. The world is leaving him behind like it leaves us all. Both of them had become mean and angry and judgmental. He’s getting old, I thought. And so are you, mother.

Consider This a Public Service

Consider This a Public Service

This is a public service to my compatriots who find themselves poised at the edge of the dating pool in their mid-40s. It’s an encapsulation of the advice you read online or receive from the well-meaning or not-so-well-meaning. It is in no particular order.

  1. Get a job.
    Done! Mission accomplished! Bring on the eligible suitors! I admit to being more than a little floored by this one, then I looked at many of my contemporaries and realised that they stayed home with their children while their (now ex-) husbands worked. Going out there and getting even a part-time job is a major step towards self-sufficiency I’ve had for most of my married life. To that I say huzzah my sisters and welcome to the workforce, but don’t expect to get dates out of it.
  2. Join a gym
    Apparently people hook-up at the gym? Not me. I go to the gym to exercise and get out of my head for a couple of hours a day. Besides, the gym is a microcosm of my neighbourhood. Most members are either in their 20s or 60s, there are few members in my age bracket.
  3. Put yourself out there
    So I can watch my hypothesis that 90% of men chase the same 10 women be proved in real-time? The scientific method in action! No thanks. I’m not there yet. Right now the wounds are still very raw. I get daily reminders of my own invisibility which reinforce my reluctance to put myself out there.

    I tried online dating once. I had two responses and one date in two years.

  4. Be yourself
    Be yourself! Just understand that that self is perfectly groomed, immaculately dressed, feminine within the standard of beauty, funny but not too funny because no one wants to date a clown, sexually you’re,”…like Dora the Explorer, but your passport is just filled to the brim.”

    Well, you know what? I am a smart, funny, sexy, educated, unabashed feminist, woman, homeowner, who has great style and good manners. I’m a witty, cultured, urbane, sophisticated, baseball lover and hockey fanatic. I am tall and lithe and I am so much more than the sum of my parts.  But I am “middle-aged”, with super-short red hair, and black glasses (I joined the profoundly visually impaired this year so no contacts for me), so nothing else seems to matter.

  5. Think/Be positive
    Fuck you.
  6. Date younger
    OK, sure.
  7. Date older
    OK… sure.
  8. Find a man in his 60s who wants to settle down.
    I’m only 46 and I don’t want to settle down. I’m already settled. I have a career and I own a home.
  9. My friend got involved with a married man…
    I don’t do adultery
  10. They broke up and she didn’t have sex for five years…
    How is this helping?
  11. Then she met a nice guy.
    Let me see if I heard this series correctly, you’re friend got involved with a married man. After they broke up she didn’t have sex for five years, and then she met a nice guy.
  12. There are plenty of guys in their 40s who are single.
    I hear this from friends who do not live here. There may be tons of single men in their 40s in Atlanta or DC or Seattle, but not here. Here men marry, move their families to the suburbs, and stay there.
  13. Go to places where men are: bars, grocery stores.
    Married men and men with partners go to the grocery store with their wives/partners. Single men use Instacart or Blue Apron. As for bars, I like dives where the food is good.

Of course, not all the advice is terrible

  1. Sweetie, this is a death. You are going to grieve. You need to mourn your loss.
  2. Get this vibrator and get this book and take care of yourself first.
    The vibrator is not working out as well as I had hoped. The noonday demon pops into my head and asks why are you bothering to fantasize. You’ll never get this. And when you’re straight like me, there is nothing quite like a man.
  3. This is going to hurt. The hurt may not go away, but you will handle it better and it will change.
    This has been mostly true. Some days I handle my grief better than others.
  4. Take a moment and look at all you’ve done since September. You’re doing incredibly well and you should be proud.
  5. Don’t be so hard on yourself.
  6. Find your people.
  7. Go out there and have fun and forget about everything else.
  8. Get a therapist.
  9. Just because people give advice doesn’t mean you have to take it.
  10. There are so many people who love you, but you’re in so much pain you can’t see it. It’s ok. Lean on your friends.

Them!

Them!

“As you know, Mr. Goodwin is not indifferent to those attributes of young women which constitute our chief reliance or our race in our gallant struggle against the menace of the insects. He is especially vulnerable to young women who have a knack for stimulating his love of chivalry and adventure.” -Rex Stout Prisoner’s Base

Believe me when I say you haven’t lived until someone says to you, you know? you’re a very attractive woman but there is nothing sexy about you. For a moment, I felt vindicated. Yes, I thought, I knew it! I was right all along! It really is me! I think I even raised a defiant fist in the air. Were the world populated by women like me, the human race would have lost to the menace of the insects millennia ago and I wouldn’t be sitting here writing and listening the The Heartbreakers I Wanna Be Loved. The more I thought about it, the sadder I felt. Being told there’s nothing sexy about you is like being told there’s nothing human about you, nothing relatable anyway. I realised that everything I’ve ever thought about myself and how men see me was true. At best, I’m one of the guys. At worst, I’m invisible. There is no word to rally around or reclaim. In the thesaurus, the antonyms to sexy are distasteful, disgusting, unattractive, and unsexy. Not exactly terms to build a movement around and rally behind. My friend out in Seattle told me to relish this and take the opportunity to “get my sexy back”. What does that mean, I asked?

Since this episode, I’ve asked countless friends what is sexy? The men in my life told me all of the things I’d heard before: kindness, generosity, intelligence, a sense of humour, confidence, no drama. (The one who said no drama got an earful.) Not one of them told me the obvious things like long hair, great breasts, long legs; because it wasn’t necessary. As one of the guys, I’d heard it all before. What does sexy mean? As for my female friends, one told me sexy is a feeling. Another told me that one morning while in high school she woke up and realised she was “hot”. What’s that like, I asked her? Another told me it was being comfortable in your own skin. I’ve been given all kinds of advice: wear sexy lingerie, wear red, wear clothes that fit, be yourself (because that’s worked so well so far?), make eye contact, wear heels. Once upon a time I was a secure, self-assured woman who didn’t care if men got her or not. The right ones would, I thought. If hope is the triumph of optimism over experience, I have some hope left-some.

When my brother died, my father gravitated to me and my mother gravitated to my sister. I learned how to change a tire, replace a washer in a faucet (when faucets required washers), thread a fishing line through a bobber, put a worm on a hook and take the fish off. He taught me to pitch sidearm and to walk off pain when I was injured in the myriad sports I played. He took me fishing and we went to baseball games. I helped him strip wallpaper and paint the dining room. Measure twice, in more than two places, then cut once. He taught me the metric system. I became, for those years between six and ten, my father’s surrogate son. Then puberty came. My sister told me she envied the attention I got from our father. It’s very easy to romanticise this chapter in my life. I was, for the most part, free of the gender-based restrictions placed on most girls my age. But it wasn’t me he saw, it was his late son. His attention was conditional, based on my ability/willingness to go along with his wishes.

When puberty hit I was handed off to my mother. It was a little like the urchin arriving at the door. My father withdrew almost completely. My life now had rules and boundaries I hadn’t had before. When my mother took me out to by my first bra she told me under no circumstances was my father to see me without a bra. That he could not see me in just my pyjamas, I needed a robe as well. She told me I could not longer sit cross-legged on the couch, particularly around my father. I now had to sit with my legs or ankles crossed. She had me walk up and down the living room with a book on my head. One day when I took the stairs two at a time (something I still do) she had me walk up and down the stairs, one at a time, twenty times. She told me boys, later men, were only after one thing, and it was up to me to be strong and resilient. I needed to be modest and covered. A girl who slept around was damaged goods and was going to end up crazy “like your aunt”. Yet, as I got older the pressure she put on me to be in a relationship was relentless. One day when I was home on break from college, I went to her for a hug and she said I was too old to get love from my mother. I needed a boyfriend. I went in to my father and said, dad mom said I need a boyfriend. He flipped down his newspaper and said, I got along perfectly well without one, flipped up his newspaper and kept reading. Mixed messages. Diametric opposites.

Being dragged into my mother’s feminine world where I wasn’t pretty enough or deferential enough and too independent killed what little self-esteem I had. She gave me a book that may have been called, I Care About Me. On the cover were two very Mormon, blonde, smiling teens. The book talked about nutrition and hygiene and proper conduct and all those things young people are supposed to care about. It didn’t talk about how you are supposed to feel when your parents are trying to force you into diametrically opposing molds. It was at this point that I found two things that probably saved my life: feminism and punk. Feminism and the punk scene allowed me to start getting more comfortable in my own skin. The punk scene was full of misfit toys. And I came of age when Bikini Kill made it OK for me to get up and say I was sexually assaulted AND emotionally abused AND my experience as a young woman was valid. These were the things that gave me the courage to start speaking up and walking away.