I'm not trying to strip anyone away from their precious self-proclaimed anything. I totally get that what we identify ourselves as is important, and if we believe in it enough it becomes engrained into our true personality and pretty soon it becomes truth.
Tomboy has been my self fulfilling prophecy since I first learned of the word. I've always been called a tomboy growing up mostly by adults, and then as I got older by my peers. I first took it to mean I was mannish, in a negative non-girly way, which really got to me because I truly loved all the girl stuff; pink bikes, Barbie, my mom's sense of style, and especially fashion. So despite my initial reluctance the word rightfully fit me because I also loved the "guys stuff"; the rowdiness, the competitiveness in everything my childhood friends played (video games, freeze tag, police chase, bike dares down the steep neighborhood hills, etc.). It was like my god damned destiny.
I even loved the thought of a uniform men (IE, my dad, whom I looked up to incredibly as a child) wore: the ritual, simplicity, and the elegance of picking out a suit, a tie, and a crisp shirt for work. Seeing such a grown up and male routine made my closet of cotton uncoordinated things, crammed in my shared closet on plastic colorful hangers next to my well-worn hand me downs from the boys made me feel so damn immature. A peon. That realization was a formative moment in which I started to become truly aware of clothing, perceptions, and that people so far thought of me as a tomboy. This was when I was around 10 years old.
I don't know, Olga. Ten years old sounds awfully accurate...almost made up. Are you shitting me here?
Well, I know for a fact it was when I was 10 years old because it was around that age I sheepishly and painfully auditioned for the role of Dorothy in my elementary school's Wizard of Oz play using my stupid quivering indoor voice instead of my confident and booming OUTSIDE VOICE! and instead got cast as one of the four munchkins, which included a hand-me-down costume comprised of clownishly proportioned men's shirts, a smelly tie set inside the shirt, and a sad (but super soft!) pair of plaid flannel boxer shorts that belonged to my teacher's son. I remember being utterly humiliated because when it was my turn to deliver my one and only line ("...positively, absolutely!") I was to go to center stage and point my finger in the air enthusiastically and scan the crowd with a crazy munchkin grin. It was in that moment I saw the teacher's actual son, now a handsome grown up sitting next to who I assume was his pretty grown up girlfriend, looking at my boxer shorts with his mouth open like that stupid emoji with the wide eyes. Needless to say it was not my best performance. It's not everyday you learn an earth-shattering truth about yourself: don't be fucking shy and fight for what you want or else you'll end up being the stupid munchkin wearing smelly boxer shorts that God only knows what went down in.
Over the years I loved associating myself to the Tomboy category, but always strived for it in my own way. It's easy to lose your point of view in the overall noisiness of fashion, especially with tempting trends, and definitely when you multiply that by the factor of time. I think I lost my way for a while in the past months, and seeing this blog has shown me that I may have been trying to pursue something (an image, a POV, an look) that was never truly me. But this? The above? This is me.
I know, I know! It's all black again, blah blah blah. I'm trying to embrace more color in a way that feels more me (which is proving to be a challenge due to the whole losing my way thing I just said), but looking at the overall silhouette of the above I'm loving it. Is that narcissistic? Fuck no. It's confidence. It's me not being a munchkin and striving for my inner Dorothy who gets to wear the beautiful glitter red slippers instead of tube socks from Goodwill.
Yes, sure, if I'm being completely honest with myself my body could probably stand to tone up some more, and I could have probably Photoshopped my leg scars (from being clumsy and generally enjoying the company of sharp-clawed kitty cats) or Mexican arm hairs, but I didn't. Because I'm happy to report that for the first time in a long time I'm seeing photos of me and feeling very good about them.