Not so much a rules girl

A friend who read my last post interpreted it in a way that I didn’t intend – as a judgement against people who wear makeup, and fashionable clothes and things. The post was never meant to be judgemental of people, but I can see how it may have felt that way, because I was angry when I wrote it. But let me be clear. I wasn’t angry with people who wear makeup, or with makeup, or even with fashion. It was not a post against makeup, or clothes, or shoes, or anyone who chooses to glam up and feels good about it.

It was a post against the idea that I MUST shave my legs in order to be seen in public.

A post against the idea that I MUST shave my armpits in order to be. Just be.

A post against the idea that my skin or hair isn’t good enough the way it is, that I must slather it in a million “beauty” products, merely to go to work.

A post against the rules. The rules that say whoever I am, I must avoid being myself at all costs.

Above all, I am angry with myself, for believing I had to buy into all that. I am angry that when, earlier this year, I decided to stop shaving my legs, it took me months to stop flinching at the sight of them. Flinching at the sight of my own natural legs, with their own natural hair.

Which is nothing to how ashamed I felt when I stopped shaving my armpits. How embarrassed I was by my own armpits. I’m sorry, but in a world that contains the Abbott government, there is so much shame and horror to go around that there should be none left for my armpits.

As it turns out, the square, conservative, front row dwelling child who compulsively did as she was told throughout her school days is downright rebellious at heart. There were signs of it even before I allowed my body hair to run wild. I wear odd socks. I sometimes wear odd earrings – I like the whimsy of a bird chasing a cat around my head all day. It seems somehow appropriate.

I started the sock thing as a way to add a little more colour to an often drab winter wardrobe, but in truth there’s a part of me that continues to do it so that I can say “Why not?” to people who call me on it. So that I can say “they’re just socks, people – why do they matter?” and to explore the idea that they seem to matter to some people with an alarming intensity. Why is that? It’s provocative, and I’m ok with that.

My rebellious side looks at rules and says “oh really? Why should I?” (This sometimes gives me some trouble as a teacher, I must admit.)

My scientific side wants to understand.

My teaching side wants everything to be fair and just and, let’s face it, many of our rules are not. Men can go topless in public, women can’t. Men are strange if they shave their legs and armpits, women are strange if they don’t. I could go on indefinitely, but I think you take the point.

I say: to hell with the rules.

Be who you are. Wear what you want. Shave what you want. Make your own rules. I won’t judge you, you won’t judge me, and we’ll try like hell not to judge ourselves.

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