Grateful to be alive at thirty-five

I am so grateful to have just turned thirty-five. Not the birthday that all single (or any) women would be celebrating with delight, I know. Personally, I thank God for every year of life I am granted, no matter what life brings (or doesn’t). But in this particular case, I am grateful to be thirty-five today, and not, say, fifteen, because I’m a woman. And if I were fifteen today, in all likelihood, I’d be caught up in the ROGD trans craze.

I was never a princess-in-glitter-and-pink girl; my mother recounts how when I was less than two, she predicted I’d be “more of a tailored dresser” as an adult, from my absolute, positive refusal to wear any of the beautiful, ruffly (read: itchy-scratchy!) dresses she/I had been so generously gifted with. When I was four and a half, I got a home haircut during which I kept on saying, “More! More!” I rocked a crewcut that summer. Most of my life since then I have had short hair; I cannot deal with fuss, and when my hair was long, it looked like a mop. As a kid, I always enjoyed it when someone thought I was a boy—between blue being my favorite color (and my first word!), hand-me-downs from male cousins, and my own preference for comfort over style, this occurrence was not too surprising.

I never had close friends. Although to this day I’ve never been formally diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder, I do fit the bill in many ways—intellectually gifted; socially clueless, and immature despite being a keen observer; categorizing everything; (subtle) stimming behavior; and intense special interests. My ever-patient mother got daily quizzes from me about every dog breed under the sun, when I was in the fourth grade, had read Call of the Wild, and was wildly into all things arctic and canine.

My not fitting in, and my relationships with kids in my class being more “parallel play” than friendship became more apparent to me in junior high school. In high school, I tried harder to fit in, and though I was the go-to resource before tests, and I was never really bullied or teased, I was not happy. The female mindset, social instincts, and typically feminine interests, all were (and have remained) foreign to me. Why would I want to put paint on my face? My acne offered enough decoration, thank you very much. Shave my underarms? Ouch! I never wear tank tops, anyhow. I had a late start to puberty, for which I was grateful. I was tall and skinny and, if I wanted to, could get away without wearing a bra under a sweatshirt through my mid-teens. I do not by any means hate my body. However, I have never particularly embraced the “womanly additions.” I’m very happy I’m somewhere between an A and a B cup, and nothing bigger. I hate clothes shopping—stores and bright lights and crowds give me figurative, and often literal, headaches.

It occurred to me very distinctly in high school that I had more of a “boys inclination,” as I put it to myself. (Interestingly, one study has suggested that ASD girls and NT boys do share some brain similarities.) All the things my classmates argued with their mothers about—inappropriate clothes, too much makeup, flirtatious behavior—held absolutely no attraction to me. I was (and am) a not overly romantic person, to put it mildly. I had a crush on a boy, but in my mind, I generally played the role of the boy as a first-person narrator, and I tended to relegate the girl in any story/daydream/situation to a two-dimensional figure.

And, though I relished reading about tomboys, I never had that excuse or outlet either, being neither athletic nor outgoing. I was a bookworm, and if easy access to the internet, never mind smartphones, had existed back then, I would have been glued to the screen. I truly shudder to think what would have happened.

I would have looked at what girls are portrayed as (a ridiculously gender-stereotyped portrayal, but unfortunately one which often resonates enough in real life to not be questioned by a child or teen), and how I didn’t match, and what girls who don’t feel like they fit the role could be—a boy! Magic!—and started my campaign immediately. I could have claimed true misery—my mother was well aware of my social difficulties—and I’m smart and can argue well, and I am persistent. I saw a therapist one year, at the school’s suggestion; I can only imagine what would have happened today had I mentioned either my own thought about “having the inclinations of a boy,” or if I had parroted some of the contagious rot that I would have been exposed to online. Glitter families, here we come! “Do you want a dead daughter or a live son?” You can scare parents so easily.

And then what? I was so very immature, despite my academic giftedness. In fact, I’d say I’m still immature (or, to be kinder to myself, naïve and childlike). I would have been led, or led myself, by the nose, down a path of mental and emotional anguish, physical harm and surgery. When I do something, I do it all the way. I would very likely today be living (assuming I’d still be alive) utterly adrift from my closest family, in a state of constant medication and ill health, and having lost the possibility to ever nurse a child—or even have one.

I don’t know if I will ever have a child. But the possibility, the ability, to have one is one of the greatest gifts any human being could ever be granted. And the human beings who are granted that are—surprise!—unfailingly females, aka women, aka people who were once girls.

These tremendously gifted people? You know, women? Guess what: They can be, do, and feel like whatever they want. When they are, do, or feel something—anything—that existence, act, and feeling is by their very doing, now a woman’s being, doing, feeling. And that is fantastic. You can choose to abide by all, none, or some of the social gender constructs/roles. You can embrace them. You can actively denounce them. You can feel that they have no bearing on your life and don’t deserve the time of day. And that’s awesome. Because only you can dictate what womanhood can include—because you are one!

The author is proud and grateful to be a unique blend of all that being a female has to offer. She prefers Rosie the Riveter to Barbie, does, as predicted, prefer a “more tailored look” (plus hoodies), loves the outdoors though she has reluctantly relinquished the plan to race the Iditarod, and believes that women can, should, and by definition are whatever they want to be.

Photo by Sasha Freemind on Unsplash