Shades of Pink

I was a man-hater. Of course I was, what else would an independent freedom loving woman be? I was fed up with the harassment, verbal and physical, fed up with man running women s life and body like his property, as it is in our macho society. So I declared war. Actually, no one knew about that war, except me and two poor cats I have castrated (no crazy testosterone under my roof!!!)

But, I was in controversy cos I didn’t really like girls that much either. Actually, guys were better friends, they didn’t demand all the details in my life, gave me enough space and privacy, and when trouble arose we were on the Doing side rather than the Reflecting side. I remember quite well that day at university when I took my courage in both hands and headed to the “girls” table in effort to hang out around less testosterone. I remember pretty well how one girl was talking about her new pink curtains as if she just met her prince charming. I could swear she d b wearing a pink tutu under her jeans. And that she was some kind of fairy in disguise. I swallowed, with difficulty and headed back to the male company. I couldn’t last more than 5 minutes in that dreamy girly world. I was already hearing birds sing and having visions of cotton candy (don t ask me why). Besides, pink was an atrocity for me, you d see me dead before I put anything pink on. In those days the only hint of color you d see on me was my hair, which at some point turned electric red and never again since, that was my low point.

Then one day there was that stranger. If you ever wondered how Hell s gate was open, here s a hint: After few online messages he asked me: what kind of woman are you?

Well he asked in Arabic, so he used the word MARA. He actually used the word MARA on me!!!! Let me explain, it was like he d just used the F word, or showed me a finger. Cos that s what the word meant to me. And somewhere along the long , long brutal argument we had, after that * word, at some point it hit me, now, now, really, what kind of Mara am I? I knew this much, I was Not a man, therefore, logically I was a woman. But, how in god s name did I live this long thinking of myself as: A person, Period. So I retreated to myself. I think I knew then what Einstein must have felt when he came up with the relativity equation. And I looked at myself in the mirror, trying to understand what being a woman starts with. I was wrong of course; it wasn’t the right place to look for answers. So I closed hell s gate and asked questions. The answers came in form of riddles and more questions. But I started to see, what a man saw in a woman. And I started loving it. Well, loving is a humble word. I got obsessed.

Few years have passed since then. Now I can say I have made my peace with men, Mara, and pink. BUT not every man, or woman or shade of pink. I am till this day astonished that discovering my own identity did not come through my parents, or school, or friends. It came through a man. Miracles did not happen since then, and I didn’t hear birds or did the sky produce endless rainbows. The world was still real, and painful at times, but there was that reassurance that now I had less enemies to hate (and male cats could rejoice) I did not become the type of girls that drove me nuts in that café years back, and I assure you I have no tutus in my closet. I admire those I used to be scared of. I admire their courage to fit pretty well into their skin and not try to be something else. I admire a woman who can be confident enough about her looks and sexuality and rights to live in a macho world without losing any of her femininity. I admire those feline like women passing in the street, heads high, walking in sky high heels without tripping, turning heads as they go. They make small miracles happen. They stop traffic the minute they step off the sidewalk to cross the street (unless it s some angry woman behind the wheel who d gladly run her over) They can get away with parking tickets (tried and proved, with a little help of mentioning dad is high rank officer) They never ever have to change tires (tip: just stand near your car and watch your problem getting solved on its own). I am not talking about striking beauties or models. I am not talking about perfect women. Every woman can do it, even in flats, jeans and t-shirt. It s in the attitude. That magical something that makes her a Woman. So once you find what makes you feel sexy and glamorous, Please do not, I repeat, DO NOT leave it for special occasions or use it only for someone you like, or to get attention. Do it because you know that within you there is a muse and never be any less than that.

Till this day my attempts to carry a “womanly” bag have failed. You d never find a mirror there, or makeup. It s mostly loads of papers, notebooks, a ruler, handy things. The only feminine thing would be perfume. Now I know I don’t need anything else. There is a rear mirror everywhere in case I need to check nothing s stuck between my teeth, and I never excuse myself to go retouch a makeup. So I m fine as I am. It s not in the things….it s within.