Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

I'm still trying to figure out the logistics of the tight-rope walk between feminist and feminine. I spent much of my later childhood feeling guilty about playing with dolls (I still feel kind of bad about the Barbies). I stole the model car that my aunt gave my brother for Christmas (he eventually appropriated the jewelry box she gave me for his Grateful Dead paraphenalia). I enjoyed building the car, but I enjoyed playing with the dolls too.

During high school I tended to deny any kind of gender-based predilictions or propensities, foregoing lipstick and jewelry on principle.

In my current state of collegiate wisdom and maturity, however, I recognize that stereotypes exist, if only as social constructs. So why not enjoy them?

In general, I'm still much more comfortable with the appurtenances of punching bags and sports bars than with high heels and those things that bend your eyelashes. But I'm learning to get in touch with my feminine side.

There is, after all, something cool about the color pink (or at least I think so). Cosmo, Vogue and Elle, while of dubious literary value and filled with appalling advertisements, provide hours of amusement ("Is he right for you? The fast, fun guide to men.") I now feel slumber parties just rock, especially when they involve gossip, hair-braiding and listening to the Dirty Dancing soundtrack.

In my new state of open-mindedness I'm realizing the joys of nailpolish for the first time since the days when it came in fruit flavors. There's something very sensually satisfying in the act of painting it carefully on, dabbing at my finger tips with a tissue, and fluttering my hands stiff-fingered to dry them.

I recently painted each of my nails a different color from my roommate's extensive supply. Years of practice in literary analysis twisted what should have been an innocent if bizarre cosmetic exercise into a whole new method of communication. Each tint, already named something fluffy and marketable by the manufacturer, also had a deeper significance. My left index finger was "Fuschia Pastel," which would be better described as "Daddy's Girl Pink." My right thumb was a bright "Crushed Cranberry," which really means "Fornicate-With-Me Red." My right index finger was "Cabernet," a dark crimson that screamed "Pseudo-Gothic." My left middle finger was a violent dark blue called "Camaro," which stood for "Malevolence."

I discovered that, using these colors, I could actually express myself articulately, even if my range was somewhat limited. For example, combining "Malevolence" and "Daddy's Girl Pink" resulted in the color-coded equivalent of a slap. "Malevolence" and "Pseudo-Gothic" together meant "I want to use you in a satanic ritual." If I combined "Fornicate-With-Me Red" and "Daddy's Girl Pink" with a dark green shade on one of my toes that started out as "British Jaguar" but was really "Racing Green," I could say "I want to fornicate with you in the back seat of the luxury car my daddy bought for me on my sixteenth birthday." Needless to say, this came in handy in numerous social situations, even if the only car my family owns is a station wagon and I've never used the back seat for anything other than transportation.

Although I had fun directing obscene messages at various innocent bystanders, the nail-polish remover eventually put an end to that game. I decided it was time to start my own library of cosmetics. For 99 cents I purchased a small vial of very shiny, very pink nail-polish from CVS. It's just a little too girly, a little hyper-feminine, which is pretty much exactly what I wanted. By playing a little too much into the stereotype, I figure I can subvert the genre, sort of the way I put an extra swagger into my step when I walk into a bar, just to remind them all that gender stereotypes are just an act, just oversized play-clothes that I put on and take off when I feel like it.

At least I hope so.