As I grew up, everything that shaped me turned into a liability, because almost none of those qualities were considered girly. Being smart wasn’t girly, majoring in engineering wasn’t girly and loving sports wasn’t girly. I liked billiards and Texas Hold’em poker, and they were both male dominant games. I never liked how heels hurt my feet. I was headstrong, I had opinions on matters.
After establishing myself in my career, love finally found me— I wasn’t searching for it, but I was awestruck. He treasured everything I was.
My wedding day finally arrived, and this meant I’d need to spend some time with my mother. Expectations would snappily be laid upon me as an added accessory. She walked into my room at the very moment I was doing up the laces on my high-tops. She sighed in an over-the-top peacock display of annoyance. I knew what that meant.
“Mother, I wore a dress. Be happy I decided to do that…” My attention was unwaveringly focused on my bright pink shoes.
The words fell upon her willfully deafened ears. I would’ve been surprised if it wasn’t so darn predictable.
“Jody look at these.” Mom pointed her wishful finger to the kitten heels on the bed.
I knew what she was getting at because her definition of femininity had been force fed to me for the entirety of my childhood. I wasn’t about to be a prisoner to it again, not on my wedding day.
“Never going to happen.” I was finally gifted a soapbox moment. A hard but nevertheless necessary process in the continued development of my freestanding, I-am-who-I-am woman. I couldn’t waste it.
She by and by left the room nettled, a clear win for womankind.
I got married wearing my shoes. Till this day I wear my husband’s plaid flannel shirts and boxers. And the best news? He loves me for all that I am. Which will always be the heelless, self-assured, pink-high-top-wearing woman.