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Super Secret Agent Spy

I am a writer. And a doodler. And an eater of Twizzlers. And the mother of MuShu, the wonder puppy. I love long walks on the beach, fast cars, fine din. . .whoops. Wrong website. . ....

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Playing With the Boys

Me. . . Of course.

She said “I never liked those girls. . .the girls who said that they were better friends with guys than girls.”  The words, pointed at me accusingly. It felt like all of blogdom could see this red, neon arrow blinking. . .pointing straight at me. “TRAITOR!” She was talking about me, wasn’t she? She’d read my “Guitar Hero” blog – the one about aiding and abetting a lothario friend of mine and thought that I was one of “those” girls. A familiar feeling sank, cold and damp into my chest. A combination of desperately wanting acceptance and a defensiveness that involves a furrowed brown and a snarl. Ugh. UGH!

I wanted to defend myself. I wanted to deny that I was ever one of “those“ girls who tossed away her femininity in order to run with the hoards of dirty, beastly little boys. I wanted to laugh along side her and say “No kidding. . .right? I’m right there with you, sister.” But I couldn’t. I am guilty of ripping out bows, cringing at the color pink, tossing away sturdy footwear in favor of running barefoot amongst pebbly roads. I am guilty of shoving firecrackers into Barbie heads and shrieking with delight as they exploded. I am guilty of climbing trees and playing with Transformers instead of making potholders or cultivating any type of artistic aspiration. I’ve never “Bedazzled” anything, but I have launched a BMX bike into a lake, shrieking the moment the wheels left the ramp.

And I still do. My entire life has been spent playing with the boys. And I kind of like it that way. My favorite playmates when I was a child? My brothers. My very best friend all through high school? A boy named Gene. My pets? All male. I even married a man with four children – all boys. I love martial arts, beating punching bags, surfing, snowboarding, the UFC, the NFL and boxing. I love grilled meat and beer. I love Jason Statham films.

Still, after reading my acquaintance’s blog, I can’t help but feel a sense of guilt. Have I abandoned my sisters for the approval of (gulp) men? Have I consorted with the enemy for so long that I will never get back to my rightful place as a woman?

Of course, one must examine my past in order to sort out this confusing issue of gender roles. For me, it started at birth. My father desperately wanted a boy – so much so that my mother felt compelled to write him a letter apologizing for the fact that I was a (gasp) girl. My young, naïve mother, so eager to please her husband left evidence of this in her beautiful, Catholic-school girl handwriting “I’m so sorry. I know you wanted a boy, but if you would just hold her, I know you would love her.” I found that note when I was 12. . .right after their divorce. It explained a lot of things.

It explained why footballs were constantly getting tossed in my direction. It explained why my father would one day tell me that if I didn’t defend myself against Lance (the bully down the street), then by God, he’d give me something to cry about. Things were not gentle in my household. My father wasn’t raising ladies or ballerinas. He was raising soldiers. Do I blame him? Not really. Parents do the best they can at the time with what they are given. I love my father dearly, but I do not believe that he was wired to raise the tender heart of a young lady. Besides, I’ve never seen him so proud of me as when I accomplished “boyish” things.

Then, there were the games my girlfriends liked to play. Hi Ho Cherry Oh didn’t interest me. Barbies could only hold my attention for so long before I wanted to pop off their heads or give them Mohawks. I could only braid so much hair before I longed to be roaming the neighborhood, collecting toads or climbing on something. . .anything. . .a tree, a ladder, a fence. I was invited to be a Brownie. . .but declined because (a) we couldn’t afford it and (b) I thought the Brownies were “stupid.” My mother chastised me for saying so, but who on God’s green earth wanted to wear that much BROWN? And those nasty brown beanies? PLEASE. I could do without. (I may have been a tomboy, but the critical eye for fashion was never once hidden, even if I didn’t follow my own rules for dressing.)

Middle and High School followed. I was unable to form solid friendships with more than two girls. And even then, we all struggled to maintain that bond among changing seas of menstrual cycles, boy-coveting, petty jealousies. As an adult, I would later discover that one of these two “best friends” slept with every boy I’d dated that year. And as an adult, the betrayal still crushed me. In any case, I never, ever felt safe with any of my girlfriends. Moods changed too quickly. Alliances formed and dissolved with every passing day. One day, you were loved. The next, you were despised for something as simple as forgetting that Leanne hates grape bubble gum. Smiling at the wrong boy was an issue that someone would actually become angry about. All the time, boys looked more and more appealing to me. . .the ones who didn’t want to sleep with me. They were fun, straightforward, they liked to play outdoors, they didn’t talk about diets, who was fat, whose clothes were out of style, who suddenly had their period in the middle of study hall.  .  .they were simple. Easy. Fun.

The final straw for me was when I’d saved enough money for a dress I’d been yearning to have for months. My “best” girlfriend at the time told me that it looked terrible on me. That I should take it back and get something else. Appreciative of her honesty, I took her advice. A week later, she showed up to a party wearing the same dress. And everyone loved it. Maybe it looked better on her. Maybe I’d just looked like a turkey wearing peacock feathers. But it was the look on her face that crushed me when I’d summoned the courage to say “Nice dress.” Was it fair of me to use her acts of betrayal as an excuse to nix forming friendships with any female thereafter? Probably not. But I associated feminine friendship with treachery, egg-shell walking. . .having to be so careful knowing that one wrong look or word could cause the house of cards to fall at any moment. It was exhausting and I was done with it. Done.

It is all of these things, and so many more, that made me one of those girls who used to say “I don’t get along with other women. I prefer the company of men.” Maybe my blogging buddy was fortunate enough to have connected with the right girls in her younger days. Maybe she was lucky enough to choose people she could love and trust. Maybe she was just better equipped than I to deal with changes in relationships. If that is the case, then I truly am happy for her. (A little envious, but truly happy.)

I wish I could tell you that my twenties bore the fruit of better friendships. But they didn’t. Although, I am happy to tell you that at age 30, I connected with a group of girls. . .no. . .a group of women who I adore, love and trust with my life.

And despite different social and economic backgrounds, we all have a few very important things in common: we love the surf and we love being sandy and waterlogged as much as we love being dressed to the nines in skirts and four inch heels. We love each other’s honesty and straightforward communication (“Oh dear…late night, darling? Here, have some of my eye cream.”) 

Perhaps, most importantly, we were all pretty amused with each other as we all revealed one buzzed evening that none of us were “ever this close with other girls,” that we were always “better friends with the guys.” Somehow, despite our love of being “one of the guys” we managed to find each other and like each other. I trust these women explicitly and I know that if I needed someone to lean on, all of them would be there for me with a shoulder stronger than any man could ever really provide.

So, I suppose that in relation to my past, this statement is true: “I was never one of the girls. I was always one of the boys.” But in this wonderful era of the present, while I am still friends with plenty of men, I can safely say that I am the best of friends with one hell of a group of women. What can I say? I’m just a late bloomer.

This blog entry is dedicated to: Sue, Suzanne, Jewel, Damaris and Patti – thank you for changing my mind about the way women operate. And to my mom, who patiently waited and stood by her late blooming daughter. xoxo