THE FEMININE MYSTIQUE?

This past weekend I got my nails done. Not a big deal, I know.

FOOLS! OF COURSE IT'S A BIG DEAL! In salons across the United States, statements are being made on a daily basis. As feet soak in warm water tubs, as hands rest in paraffin baths, women aren't just enjoying themselves, they are speaking out (albeit in a weird language that faintly smells of acetone). Allow me to translate. They're saying: "I'm a girl. Yoo hoo, watch me be feminine."

The weekend found me in Santa Barbara with a small group of my closest girl friends. We were there to celebrate the big send-off of our first compatriot into the domain of marriagehood. It's a world I know nothing about except that it's directly inspired her to become more interested in china patterns, thread counts and kitchen appliances, oh my! And she will get booty on the regular.

For the past year that she's been engaged, I've struggled to try to come to terms with womanhood "as it should be" for my age group, particularly those women of the Persian persuasion. By my age (the big 2-6), most Persian girls are well on their way to marital bliss. If they aren't, it's due to an educational exemption or extenuating circumstances. I have been accused of sheer laziness. But really, I'm not lazy. I just don't have a clue about this whole world. I can't even get myself dressed right in the morning, much less "find a man".

I had to fight off the desire to cover my ears and let out a Macauley Caulkin Home Alone holler when the bridal shower for this friend had rolled around and I heard my friends debating what two brands of silver trays any married woman should have. (The answers, now emblazoned in my head, are Lennox and Arthur someoneorother, FYI). To begin with, I felt betrayed. Like all of a sudden, my girlfriends had come out of the closet with the fact that they actually *don't* hate Martha Stewart. I was just standing there, mouth gaping until I found one friend (heretofore known as The Last Woman Standing) to share an eye roll with. I reacted as I do when watching an art movie. I 'got it' enough to make vague conversation about it, but then I felt free to go home and be confused in private.

I'm trying to decide whether to embrace or shun my decidedly unfeminine traits (again, using the scale somewhat offered to me by my Persian foremothers). I'm currently in limbo, and kinda on a self-imposed probation. The citations are scattered, but are many. I've caught myself wearing sweats one too many times lately. I like doing arm weights. I have never once turned on the Love Channel that I apparently pay premium cable bills for, but my tv is always set to 325- Fox Sports World. I involuntarily roll my eyes at the price tags on designer purses. I always forget to ask to see the ring.

On one hand, I pride myself on being able to have fun sans high heels and attitude. On the other hand, sometimes I watch these other girls trapse up and down the streets of San Diego (or God forbid LA, if I'm up there, which is when the guilt *really* sets in), and I wonder why I don't *care* enough to be like that. Am I lazy? Why do I find myself inherently annoyed if a conversation about clothing lasts more than the obligatory "What's the dress code for tonight?". Clothes shopping is an absolute last resort for me... placing a distant second after gyno appointments and watching paint dry.

I'm not sure how you negotiate femininity. Even if I wear a beautiful dress and heels and put a twist in my hips when I walk (hey single boys, I *can* do it, and do it well. holla back), some comment is sure to fire out of my mouth that betrays me. Or perhaps someone will walk by in a baseball shirt and a ponytail and flannel pj pants and I will just stare longingly, thus giving myself away.

I guess the question is: what percentage do you have to be 'typical' to be considered feminine? I have a uterus. WHAT ELSE DO YOU WANT FROM ME?

So, going back to my story, given the opportunity to have my nails done, I jumped at it. Hands? Oh yes. Pedicure? Oh, but of course!

I do this in spurts. Once in awhile, I realize how far off the girly scale I've landed, and I tuck my chromosomes under my arm and saunter back over with a vengeance. I mean, my name is Lilly, for God's sake. I wear skirts for a few days in a row and show some leg. I put on a sexy pink bra. I do grocery shopping with concentration and pick up whichever magazines have the most ribs showing on the cover. I lower my voice, and I resist (with all my might) the urge to snicker like an adolescent boy at sexual innuendos.

Then I realize how much I miss my cargos and myself, and I revert.

I kept the polish on my nails for exactly 54 hours this time (yes, I counted). It's almost as if the orange polish (see, I told you. Can't do anything distinctly feminine right) didn't want to stay on my fingers. It just began to chip away in its own little political statement.

Right now I have trailer trash couture in the manicure department.

Let that be a lesson to me.