caminante haciendo camino
valentine's vaginas
2004-02-10 | 2:51 p.m.

After reading yesterdayís entry, itís perfectly reasonable to conclude that Iím a conceited bitch. Youíd be wrong. But it would be an understandable mistake.

What I am is confident. Iím sure of who I am, what I can do, and what I want. And Iím comfortable with who I see in the mirror every morning. I know her. And knowing her, I like her.

I feel at ease with expressing my healthy sense of self-worth, because it was hard won. I fought for it. Itís mine. So, I wonít pretend to be anything else. And I certainly wonít acquiesce in order to appease anyoneís insecurities.

Iíve wondered whether this is one of the reasons that I am single. Iíve yet to meet a man who can deal with a strong, independent, intelligent, professional woman. Now, I realize that Iím clumping together the worldís male population with this type of broad characterization. And, I also realize that generalizations are usually both inaccurate and unfair. But, let me give you an example of what Iím talking about.

My friend, Steph, from law school, is a lot like me. Sheís got her shit together and she knows it. Sheís beautiful and smart and can kick ass in the courtroom. Sheís also a wonderful mother, a considerate daughter, and a loving friend. Good catch, youíd think?

Well, her husband didnít think so. Our third year of law school, about a month after sheíd become pregnant with her second child, her husband comes home and announces that he doesnít want to be married to her, that he wants a ďregularĒ girl, someone who drinks beer and likes Spam. (I kid you not, those were his words. Now, Steph can appreciate a cold beer just as much as the next person. Admittedly, she wonít touch Spam. But remember, I told you she was smart.) What made the Spam loviní, beer drinkiní girl that he was fucking a ďregularĒ girl, and thus more suitable than Steph, was that she wasnít six months from law school graduation, a bright legal career, and a paycheck twice as big as the one he brought home. Insecurity reared itís ugly head and the marriage crumbled.

So, yeah, the generalization might be both inaccurate and unfair, but the fact remains that Iíve yet to meet a man who doesnít cower or run at the thought of being in a relationship with a woman who is not only his equal, but who knows it and doesnít mind reminding him of it should it slip his mind. Iím not saying theyíre not out there. In fact, Iíd likely plunge into the depths of hopelessness if I really believed they werenít out there. I just havenít met any. Yet.

I guess one of the reasons this has been on my mind is because Iím accosted with red and pink valentineís crap every time I walk into a store. Bah-humbug! Oh, sorry, wrong holiday. Phoey! I donít appreciate when the commercial gods deluge me with heart shaped merchandise until it starts to seem somehow wrong that Iím not part of a couple. To repeat, phoey!

I did find amusing, though, an article a friend emailed to me about the heart as an ideogram, not only for romantic love, but as a symbol of female genitalia. Thatís right, folks, all those heart shaped candles, mirrors, candies, and cards that are currently filling the shelves of your local Target, are all symbols of the vagina. Red and pink vaginas everywhere. What would those couplet writing saps at Hallmark do with that?

Well, if youíve somehow made it through to the end of this tirade, I should probably apologize. But I wonít. Itís my journal, damn it. If you donít like it, donít read it. (See why I have a hard time finding a man? Maybe I am just a bitch after all.)

In any case, before I go, I need to say thanks to tattodnanny for adding me as a favorite.

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