You Can't Have All of Me

When I was eight years old, my father and stepmother moved from their home on a rural ski-mountain access road to a Victorian in the middle of our 2,000-resident town. Because of the availability of sidewalks and proximity of children my age, they decided to buy me a bicycle. 

We went to a big box store, one with a sporting goods department with rows of bikes for all ages. I was shocked to discover that you could get a bicycle with a radio built right onto it. The "Street Rocker" was definitely the coolest bike in the store. As we shopped for other things, I pleaded my case for the bike with the radio. They gave in. I was about to be the most envied kid in town.

When we returned to the bike aisle, I walked straight up to the one I wanted. It was a heck of a machine, black with neon green detailing and a matching green seat. As I was picturing myself cruising down the sidewalk to the park or the pharmacy on this little lightning bolt, my stepmother stopped me. She told me I could have the bike with the radio, but if I got it, I would have to get the girl's model. 

Right next to the incredibly cool black bike was a pepto-bismol monstrosity. The entire frame was cotton candy pink with lilac and banana-yellow details. The radio was bright pink, situated between the handlebars, both of which were adorned with matching purple and yellow streamers. It was the ugliest thing I had ever even imagined owning in my eight years of life. It had purple music notes on it. 

I argued, I begged, but eventually my desire for a bicycle that played music won me over and we left the store with the pink one. 

I was thrilled to have a two-wheeler, especially one that played music, but God, did I hate that color scheme. From the day I acquired the bike, I only rode it on streets where I knew no one. I don't think I ever once took it to the store. On the few occasions that I was sent down the street to meet my friend Charles, I would ditch it in the bushes on the town common and borrow a spare one that he had, claiming my bike was at home. (Only a few years later, this theme would show up again, when I would rush to school early to change my outfit, from the pink polos and penny loafers my stepmother insisted on, to the jeans and tshirts I kept stashed in my locker). 

I spent the entirety of my pre-teen years trying to avoid any visible signs of femininity. I didn't want my friends to make fun of my pink bike, or pink clothes, or pubescent figure (my clothes got gradually looser throughout junior high). Under "tomboy" in your Miriam-Webster, you would surely find my 5th grade school photo, complete with awkward 90's haircut and clothes from the boys section of JCPenney.

Quite recently, I took a new job at a late night bar. This particular establishment has about twenty five other bartenders, all of them female. I am the only one with a pixie cut. Although I have yet to meet them all, I may also be the only one who does not bartend with at least some amount of visible cleavage. Some wear heels. We are women, we serve drinks until 2 am. This is the uniform of people who bartend past midnight. 

Within my first two weeks, I had been aggressively approached by two homosexual women, one of whom responded to my very polite answer of "thanks, but I actually like guys" with a high-volume declaration of "what?! But you look like a lesbian!" Another night, while having a beer at the same establishment, I made a comment about a man to a coworker behind the bar. "You guys!" she shouted, gathering the other three girls on-shift around her, "she likes dudes! Did you know she likes dudes?"

So I put it on. I dug through the black hole of tshirts and jeans that is my closet and found my headbands, jewelry collection, and a few skirts. I went shopping. I dropped $157 at Target on two new pairs of jeans and four black shirts for work that fit in a more "feminine" way than most of my clothes. I do full-face makeup 2-3 nights a week before work (complete with eye shadow! Seriously, before this job, I don't think I had worn eye shadow since the last time I was in a wedding). I smile pretty and my jewelry flashes and my legs are freshly shaved, and now I spend only half the night listening to male and female customers tell me that people would probably stop questioning my sexuality if I would just grow my hair out. 

And I draw the line. I may have spent most of my childhood trying to avoid being a girly-girl only to do a near complete switch for a part-time job at age 30, but you, stereotyping world, you can't have all of me. I will take myself on a one-woman tomboy crusade for the rest of my life to prove that you don't have to have flowing locks, a wonder-bra chest and uncomfortable shoes to be characterized as feminine. It's probably going to be a long battle. I may also be single forever.

But I pour one hell of a draft beer with my two unmanicured hands.