why I wish I would be a guy

I would be Paul. Yes, my name would be Paul and I know it for sure, as a matter of fact. I was fourteen when on a rainy day nothing seemed more interesting than climbing up to our dim lit attic and play Sherlock Holmes without actually being asked to act as one. Opening boxes after boxes, I found out that I was named Paul.

But a few month later it turned out that Paul would not fit my external appearance so my parents, like it not, needed some adjustments. A gender-wide adjustment.

As a girl they put me to ballet schools. I enjoyed it, I guess. But I was only six, when I first wished: ‘if only I would be a guy’.

No, it is not the case when a soul lost direction and landed in a body that it shouldn’t have. And no, it never occurred to me to actually be a guy; I stopped at the silent whispers of: ‘if only’.

This if started to get stronger as I grew older and though me and my womanity arrived to a healthy relationship, some days, when my high heeled shaped legs draw more attention than my sharp mind, I whisper an if only between my lips.

I often play with the thought of being Emmeline Pankhurst fighting restlessly for women’s, for our, rights. Yes, I am some sort of feminist suffragette, who would make every men slalom on high heels, shave his legs, and be chick and fun endlessly. But above all, perhaps, I would make every men experience jealousy, sexual harassment and giving birth.

These three features of womanity are the ones triggering my innocent whispers when nobody hears them.

Let’s start with jealousy: I am unsure who invented this term, but it certainly was a guy to punish women. Or perhaps the whole Adam and Eva perpetration is the root of the downsides of being a woman. Eva, I’ll never forgive you for this! Just to be clear about it.
Jealousy is cruel and kills your soul. Slowly but softly and with a smile. I met jealousy at the age of 10. I was casted to dance Masha in the Nutcracker. I was casted to go on my point shoes and dance alone on the stage of an Opera house. Do you know what this means? It means 2,000 people watching your moves. It means you are talented. It means you have no friends anymore. I was standing, frozen by reading the cast, and I felt how the arrows of looks start to enter my back, how the five other almost-casted started to group against the one, against: me. This was my first handshake with jealousy and it never left my hands ever since.

Moving on to sexual harassment. It’s a delicate term isn’t it? What is sexual harassment after all? A look at your breast instead of your eyes during a job interview? A pretended accident to touch your legs while giving you a document? Or an open offer to be the girlfriend as part of your job description, while the ring shines on the proposer’s finger; a finger that clearly revels that he has been around long enough to be your father? Being a women means risking any of the above as soon as you leave the house. A woman needs to be smiley and friendly, but avoid too smiley and too friendly. You know, it is very tiring to balance between these two and once you loos attention you are in trouble. You are either finding yourself in a bed that you never intended to sleep on, or you are updating your resume to give it another try. I was updating my resume.

And finally let’s talk about giving birth: though this is surely the most absurd wish I have towards men, I still have hopes that research and innovation develops at fast pace. Giving birth is said to be the most amazing experience a women can have. Though I have not tried it yet, I am sure it is true. Yet, once again Eva’s mistakes gave us all the results of her sin, making this beautiful thing damn painful, making this thing the purpose of life and making us desperate to have it on heights that are surely missing from the DNA of any men. The struggle, the battle, the hope, the pain, the sorrow are just few possible paths on a seemingly beautiful journey. I have hopes.

But actually I don’t like the name Paul. No, I am absolutely sure I don’t want to be Paul. Paul wears only flat shoes, Paul has hairy leg and Paul is not fun and chic. No, I don’t like Paul…

 

So perhaps, I don’t wish to be a Paul anymore, I just wish to be a happy woman…

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