A Girl Thing

No karate this weekend. I want to be a girl. I go to Joni’s coffee shop in street clothes to read an L.A. Times. Tom who is amazed by me is at the counter giving me the gift of his awe. I soon settle into a well-written story about Muir when a gentleman whose name is Paul engages me and regales me for most of two hours about his many exploits. He is funny and fairly erudite if a bit old and generously built. Then at last he tells me what a great gal his wife is and I think, “no, no… she’s a saint.”

Lovely raven-haired Thia is at the corner table, with her open mythology books. She looks pensive. I would have engaged her if not for the gentleman Paul, whose desire to regale was quite pronounced. I finally take leave of the gentleman Paul and go next door to the Beyond Beauty Supply store, mostly on principle, because this weekend, I am being a girl. Granted, one that is menopausal, but femaleness is the point. Occasionally, I grow tired of being one of the guys. I don’t want boob jokes in my e-mail queue. I don’t want to run the chainsaw. I don’t want to race, run, shoot, or throw punches. I want my hair curled and to smell of Shalimar or Davidoff’s Cool Water. I want to dress in white silk and drape myself across a chaise in front of a fireplace, as the gentleman Paul believes I do.

He could not possibly understand how harsh the world is to femaleness and how, for the solitary bird, it must be practiced in stealth lest it invite assumptions that only the presence of testosterone can avert. Yet, alas! My own must be showing at the cobbler Harutun’s whose name means “heaven.” I hand him my shoes. He kisses my hand. Pronounces me beautiful, and I, him, a gentleman, the likes of which I wish the world were filled. And it does occur to me this could be the case. That like the small bits of violence comprising news on TV, a handful of rogues clouds my field of vision. I thank the man whose name means “heaven.”

Home again, I call Marg who is upstairs, having returned from a business trip. I try to have flowers on her table after she travels because there is no man who does that for her and she should have white blossoms waiting for her. We know this because we are female and have noticed their absence a thousand times.

We decide instead of getting together to wrap in blankets in our respective flats and watch TV on a lovely Saturday night. I pull out my needlework and try to watch Sigourney Weaver sniffing out aliens but I can’t stand the violence and instead put in a DVD of “Must Love Dogs,” a film in which John Cusack recites lines clearly written by a woman. I finish it Sunday morning and cry at the happy ending.

Today, I shall practice piano, read poetry and buy silk flowers for the empty vase by the window. I may even set up my sewing machine and alter a dress I’ve had but never worn because it needs altering. I will read Cook’s Illustrated in a bubble bath, call my mother and possibly write a letter with a calligraphy pen. I shall spend late evening in a white silk nightgown and reread some passages in a self-help book that hasn’t quite seemed to kick in.

The man’s world can wait one more day.

Saturday, May 9, 2009

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