It's time to get comfortable (for once)

"A revolutionary woman can't have no reactionary man." - Assata Shakur

Illustration by Laura Callaghan

At the beginning of this year, I finally overcame the aggressive clutches of comphet and claimed the lesbian label for myself. After beating the same heteronormative horse (casual dating, then relationship seeking, then hookup culture, then a brief stint as a wannabe domme, then back to mindless hookups), I realized that there is no man who has been socialized under capitalism who will ever be worthy of my time, attention or love in a romantic sense. They do not deserve access to my mind and spirit when most of them have not even attempted to deconstruct the patriarchal poison running rife in their brain since birth.

In short, them hoes got a lot of shit to work through.

But also women are just…better. Like, have you seen women? Have you had a conversation with a woman literally ever? 9 times out of 10, it’s gonna be the most incredible shit you’ve ever experienced, and the only reason it wouldn’t be is if the woman you’re engaging with has a less-than-pleasant demeanor (which is likely due to an issue that was caused by the male-created systems of patriarchy and capitalism).

Most women who finally let go of their interest in pleasing the male gaze report symptoms of extreme fulfillment and overwhelming whimsy, delight and ease. I’m here to concur that reality! Finding out that there’s so much more to who I am than just being eye candy for random men on the street has been so incredibly freeing. Plus, having this paradigm shift has seemingly raised me a to vibrational level that repels straight men entirely, which I’m also very happy about. I can’t remember the last time some overly zealous dude tried chatting me up while I was minding my business in public.

This aforementioned paradigm shift has also led me to prioritize my physical comfort when I leave my house, since the outside world is often exhausting, threatening and overstimulating as hell. I’ve found myself ditching face makeup entirely (since no one can see the highlight/contour duo under a mask anyways) and have also been gravitating toward bigger, baggier clothes. It’s been thrilling to finally whip out the flannels and button-ups now that autumn is in full swing, plus I have a newfound obsession with cargo pants, which is something I never thought I’d say.

I remember there was a day earlier this spring when I was doing my final outfit check in the mirror and I thought to myself: “Hmm, I wonder if this outfit is too ‘masculine’.” The ensemble in question was a blue plaid flannel, a white long sleeve, mustard yellow Reeboks and some brown straight leg corduroys that frankly make my butt look wonderful.

But that question made me stop and think further: what am I basing the concept of “masculinity” on? What is so inherently “masculine” about having my full body covered or wearing clothes that don’t inhibit my natural bodily movements?

And then it struck me: for my entire life, I have subconsciously associated “masculine” presentation with comfort. All of my previous “feminine” ensembles involved skin tight tops, tiny skirts and heels far too high for someone who had “Bambi” as a nickname growing up. And even though I absolutely may have been cunt’s most loyal servant in my dress with the plunging neckline and wedgie-inducing tights, I always found a tiny part of myself desperately awaiting my return home so I could trade this cocoon of “femininity” for my trusty floral kaftan.

Coming to the realization that “femininity” was causing me to relegate my unabashed physical comfort to the privacy of my home, because I subconsciously believed that me at my most comfortable wasn’t good enough for the world was…jarring to say the least. Those assigned female at birth (AFAB) are hyper conditioned to always consider how we present and to ensure that this presentation is as close to the “feminine” ideal beauty standard as possible.

But the thing about the “feminine” ideal beauty standard is that it sits upon a throne of lies; I have some pretty serious doubts regarding what the “perfect woman” actually looks like when the parameters are coming from the white supremacist exploiter. What business do the women of the world have prioritizing a beauty ideal that is based exclusively on thinness, subservience and being blonde? Especially the women who are lesbians and couldn’t give a shit-and-a-half about a man’s opinion on their appearance anyway?

There’s a saying that goes something like: “Women are like coffee grounds; you never know how strong they are until you put them in hot water.” And to this I say: what is to be made of me, a person who has spent her entire life in the boiling River Styx? Why is my strength determined by my ability to resist the heat, rather than my willingness to find solace in the fact that it consumes me? At what point do I stop being burned and become the fire itself?

To exist as an AFAB person is to be constantly melting and absorbing and withering and growing anew. The path is never clear, the time is never right, the coffee is never the right potency. The perfection we’re taught to strive for is something that is both a stagnant goal and a moving goalpost, but coming into myself has made me realize that I will simply twirl and tumble my way through this life wherever it takes me, fear of imperfection be damned.

It’s just me and these cargo pants against the world.