So You And Me Are Free To Be You And Me As Long As We're Like You?

I live in a city that also happens to house one of the best creative writing programs around, and two years ago, I was lucky enough to take an evening class there.

On the second or third night of class, I ran in late, as is often the case, straight from work. Pregnant. In heels. No big deal. You see, I always wear heels. And I do this almost exclusively because I can’t wear flats, because flats kill my feet. Kill. I don’t know why this is, but it is. And sometimes it’s a little annoying. Mainly to those around me. I thought that this would for sure change when I became pregnant, so I happily loaded up on sensible flat shoes. However, as it happened, the more gigantic I became, the more my feet needed the lift. So back to the heels I went, and I could run again.

So, I ran in late to this class. And the woman sitting next to me began to outright chastise me about the wearing of the heels. I think her exact words included the phrases “it was obvious that I was oppressed by men…oppressed exactly like a Chinese girl with bound feet...and really, those shoes couldn't possibly be my choice and couldn't possibly be working for me.”

Right.

Fascinating.

The heels that I purchased with the money that I made in the job I that chose were binding me in a way equal to that of a small child forced to wear tight bandages over 1,000 years ago. Really? Perhaps even binding me like her stupidity was binding her?

Please.

And please tell me whatever happened to "free to be you and me"? When I was a young tomboy learning to run around in whatever was comfortable, I spent rainy days inside watching William want dolls and learning it was alright to cry. I also happened to be learning about empowerment. And watching both my parents live it in their own ways. So now I know it when I see it. And I know it looks different for everyone.

It means liking politics and pumps, or the latest technologies and the latest trends.

It means being a stay-at-home parent. Or a working parent. Or a working at home parent. Or all of the above depending on the week.

It also means choosing not to be a parent or a husband or a wife or a long list of all kinds of things. Because it means choosing.

Deciding.

Being allowed to be your most authentic self. And celebrating others doing the same. Even if they’re doing it differently from you. In nation, persuasion, color, form, or belief. Liberally. Conservatively. Wearing pink jewelry. In World of Warcraft. Raving about design. Or debates. Or the Dixie Chicks.

Even if they’re girly. And even if they’re not.

I get that. Because there’s a tomboy hiding under my sk*rt. A tomboy who likes necklaces. And bubble baths. And Helen Reddy. And Mother Teresa. And Gloria Steinem. And heels.

And that works for me.

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This post is a tiny part of the Parent Bloggers Network Blog Blast happening this week with sk*rt. Bloggers everywhere are encouraged to write a post on the topic “What Are You Hiding Under Your Sk*rt?” sometime this week, and then load that post up onto sk*rt (then send the link to PBN, you can get all the deets here). The person who gets the MOST votes (not comments, votes) on their post at sk*rt WINS!

What do you win, you ask?

A birth necklace with birthstone from Little Jules

A tee or tank and stationery from Pro Mom Couture

Rock Star Momma, a book by Sky Hoppus (wife of a Blink 182 member) with forward by Gwyneth Palrow.

A Little Capers tee

A $50 gift certificate to Barnes and Noble

Total value: $275

We’ll announce the winner on Friday June 22 at 11:59pm.

Not bad huh?

So tell us, what are you hiding under your sk*rt?

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And wow. I just read a really fantastic post that Jenny just wrote on this same topic. She roars. And she rocks.