That's Me

The older I get, the more aware I become of my femininity. I guess I should note that I was a tomboy/rebel/intellectual kid and teen, and realize right now that I’ve actually had only about ten year’s practice at this woman thing. I had boyfriends and such, but they were dirty punks who loved the fact that I drank forties and got rowdy with the best of them. I was somewhat shocked when last week I found myself crying into the brownies I was stuffing into my mouth. I’m surprised I’m even admitting it; because I mostly try to be one of those non-crying people, and then when I do it only lasts a few seconds and I try to wise-up, which I did promptly this particular instance and reminded myself that I was tired and PMSing. Until the last year or so, I’ve never been one of those girls who looks at the magazines and wishes I were like the girls inside, never been jealous of other girls. Every once in a while I catch myself doing so, or complaining about the virtually non-existent pudge that appears at my waist when I sit down. This evening I was munching out, watching some bad reality t.v., feeling sorry for myself between commercials, pining over the image of a god I created (why do we do that?), and one of the scenes before me brought me the utmost relief.

The show was “Beauty and the Geek” , where they pair hot chicks with geeky guys and they compete for money. At an elimination competition one chick was asked what the capital of Iraq was. Squeaky voice: “Ummmmmn…Can you spell that?” Spelled. “Ummmmmn….Afghanistan?” I cringed. There were other examples during the episode too, that showed all the chicks to be brainless. It’s hard to believe that people that daft really do exist. Not knowing what Social Security was, nothing about the current war- are they living under a rock? And if so can I get the address so I can get a boob job and a tan? During the next commercial break I got up and headed to the kitchen to scrounge some more, and I caught a glimpse of myself in my tank top and hip hugging corduroys, my curves, and got the biggest smile on my face. Despite the do-rag and house slippers, I’m the cutest thing. I’m sexy, I’m intelligent, not crazy (ahem), and I’ve got a good life despite the road bumps. And I can laugh at myself for crying in the brownies. At that moment appreciating myself, and my curves, I was reminded of Maya Angelou’s poem “Phenomenal Woman.”


PHENOMENAL WOMAN
by Maya Angelou

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies
I'm not cute or built to suit a model's fashion size
But when I start to tell them
They think I'm telling lies.
I say
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips
The stride of my steps
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally
Phenomenal woman
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please
And to a man
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees
Then they swarm around me
A hive of honey bees.
I say
It's the fire in my eyes
And the flash of my teeth
The swing of my waist
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally
Phenomenal woman
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say
It's in the arch of my back
The sun of my smile
The ride of my breasts
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally
Phenomenal woman
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say
It's in the click of my heels
The bend of my hair
The palm of my hand
The need for my care.
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally
Phenomenal woman
That's me.