I am not a girly girl. I’m most comfortable in jeans. I don’t wear makeup or heels. I can count on one hand the number of dresses I own. I love martial arts and science fiction.
My two sisters are both girly girls, the middle one in particular. Growing up, she was always trying to come at me with a curling iron or an eyeliner pencil.
My family is very attached to traditional gender roles. They just expect that I’ll eventually marry a man and have kids. They spent years teaching me to be ladylike: sit like this, walk like this, talk like this, eat like this, think like this.
I reject this.
I’m asexual and don’t plan to marry or reproduce. I have a big mouth and strong opinions. I like to hit and kick things. I swear profusely, sometimes in several languages. I’m comfortable in jeans and at sci-fi cons. I can burp louder than any boy I’ve ever met, and I put a six-foot former Marine on the ground because he said I couldn’t.
And you know what?
That’s okay. None of that makes me less of a woman or less of an acceptable person.