I’ve never been a girly girl.
This is a topic I’ve written about before and one I often battle with. When I see a gaggle of gals giggling and gallivanting with one another (I’ve been practicing my alliteration skills lately), I feel like a sad puppy staring out onto the sidewalk from inside the pet store window while simultaneously throwing up poopy newspaper that I ate from the bottom of the cage.
Having large herds of girlfriends and playing with each other’s hair and going on shopping trips together is something I’d like to do, but physically can’t make myself act on.
Maybe it’s because I’m an only child and am still perplexed at 29 as to how to play well with others or maybe it’s because as a child most adults thought I’d be a future lesbian due to my lack of wanting to dress as Cinderella or Madonna and instead reveled in pretending I was Rod Serling or Groucho Marx. Who the hell wants to be a blonde chick with no decipherable talents? I’d rather be a middle-aged Jewish comedian or creator of the best television series EVER any day.
Being the anti-girl girl is a sad truth I carry with me and was forced to confront again the other day when a female friend of mine kept touching me.
She was excited, thrilled with the way the day was progressing and as she got happier, the more she put her hands on me. If I was walking in front of her, she would pat my back. If we were standing side by side, she would grab my arm. It was not creepy and rather endearing, but I spent the majority of my time with her thinking about how I could force myself to return the tactile favor. When touching someone doesn’t come naturally to you, over-thinking about touching them makes things substantially more awkward then they need to be. While her hand effortlessly graced my body, I stood there stiff, raising my arm as if a puppeteer was controlling my limbs and placed a heavy hand on her shoulder, like a friggin’ emotionally-challenged war hero father congratulating his son on a good job at the ball game.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Why can’t I just relax and join in with the girl touching? Why is it that when I’m around females my first thought isn’t, “OMG her hair!” and instantly start stroking it?
Psychotherapists would probably tell me that I wasn’t touched enough as a child, but I don’t think that is the case. I come from a very loving and emotional family, predominantly female (my father left when I was eight and I was raised by my mother and grandmother). Though my grandmother comes from a generation where you’re unable to cry at Dances with Wolves because you lived a similar early life, my family was big about the hugs and back scratches when needed.
And with all that being said, I have no qualms about touching males. However, I don’t touch men anymore because a.) I have a boyfriend and b.) enough men read Men’s Health articles where it says if a woman touches your arm she’s flirting with you and she must like you.
What I’m trying to say is that I’m not a frigid cyborg incapable of making human contact; I’m a frigid cyborg incapable of touching other women. Hugs? Yes. Pat on the head? Yes. Back rubs? No. Cuddling in bed? No. It’s not that I’m uncomfortable with my sexuality. Hell, you’re talking to the girl who still has a place in her closet for men’s suits, ties and top hats. It’s just that women are the last people I want to cuddle in bed with. Unless we were stranded in the middle of the Yukon during a fun “lady vacay!” Canadian trip gone awry, I don’t need to crawl into my girl friend’s sleeping bag and neither does she.
And don’t get me started about flopping my boobies out or peeing in front of her.
So female friends and acquaintances, if I don’t touch you, this is why. It’s not that I don’t like you or find you repulsive, it’s just…I’m a god damn weirdo.