Let’s be real. As a woman, originality is the only way you make it. Even if you’re original for being the most obnoxious person anyone’s ever met, you’re original. It feels like there’s this unspoken standard for women that it’s better to be hated for something than it is to be known for nothing. Fitting into a bubble is the worst thing you can do as a woman. If society can put what you are into a category of “basic” then forget it. That’s what you are. You’re no longer an educated woman with a degree, or a really good cook, or an amazing writer. You’re basic.
Let’s talk about the term “basic” before I dive into my real point. Society has found a way to weaponize every aspect of a woman’s life. If more than one woman likes something it becomes stupid and basic, because anything that more than a handful of women like can't be mentally stimulating, interesting, or worthy. I won’t comment on the number of men I see wearing the same outfit every time I step out of the house, because my blog isn’t about men, but I’ve never seen the hoodie and flannel combination that men wear all fall be called basic. Have you? This leads me to the question you’re probably asking yourself right now.
“Am I basic?” I’ll answer for me, you answer for you.
My answer: I’m pretty damn basic. Nothing I like is that niche. Everything I like is developed off of me searching “clean girl aesthetic” on Pinterest. I have been drinking the Vanilla Sweet Cream Cold Brew from Starbucks since 2019, I have an Abercombie obsession, I can’t shake the Hailey Bieber chrome nails, I baby talk to my dog, and I like barre classes. I’m literally the embodiment of every other girl in the world. The thing that’s the most unique about me is that I’m a little bit cryptic and cynical, but that’s not cute, that’s weird. Trust me. I’ve been told this enough times to be confident that this does not qualify me for the feminine mystique.
I’m just like other girls, in the best ways, the worst ways, and the basic ways, too.
THE WORST WAYS:
I’m just like other girls in the worst possible ways. When someone tells me they love me, I stop seeing their faults. When I get hurt, I think of the most passive way I can get them back. I count my calories. I have to avoid scales or I’ll start to use them every day. When I get sad, I cut bread out of my diet. Heartbreak will take me about a year to heal from. When I’m jealous, I make comments that would make the next section of this blog sound like a Notes app apology. I think that I’m Taylor Swift and that I’m allowed to spill all of my tea to the world, except it’s just my Instagram followers. I post song lyrics and hope someone will catch the vibe. I read my tarot cards when I’m feeling petty. I cried for 14 days straight when I got broken up with. I Google “How to lose weight fast” too many times in a calendar year. I hate watch reality TV and love the Kardashians. I say that I’m in my villain era about once a week, fall back into a spell of tears, and then reboot the villain era (Note: I’ve settled for a healing era).
I make lists of all the things that I’ve done wrong and all of the reasons why I probably had it coming. I can tell you the exact date of the last time I ate boxed macaroni. I get my hair done as a coping mechanism. I ghost my therapist sometimes. I tried manifestation methods to feel like I was in control of something. I begged someone to hear me out more than once. I cried and pleaded for attention more than a few times. I’ve done insane things for male validation.
It doesn’t matter if I’m a good writer, if I’m good at my job, or if I’m well-spoken and can handle myself in a political debate. I am the same 7-year-old girl who put herself on a diet. I’m the same 13-year-old girl who was too afraid to wear anything other than what everyone else was wearing, which was Northface coats in May. I’m the same 15-year-old girl who was confident she’d never be pretty enough to have a boyfriend. I’m the same 18-year-old girl who cried at her first college party. I’m the same 21-year-old girl who based her worth on how many drinks were bought for her at the bar. I’m the same 23-year-old girl who sold her personality to a heartbreak. I’m all of those girls. And I always will be.
THE BEST WAYS:
Queue, “Man, I Feel like a Woman” and the painting that followed me from house to house in college. I love being a woman. I’m just like other girls in that there’s nothing I love more than wearing a big t-shirt to bed, shaving my legs, and getting into clean sheets. I’m just like other girls as I make five-minute friendships with other girls in the bathroom at the bar. I feel just like other girls when I hear a new lyric perfectly describing what it feels like to be a twenty-something-year-old woman. I love smelling like vanilla and sharing my lipgloss. I love the comment section full of other women when I post a selfie. I love the support that you get from other women when you get your heart broken. I love the unspoken loyalty between you and any other woman in the room, especially at the bar and at work. I love when a woman compliments the little details that a man would never notice, like “I really love the way that the abstract lines on your nails look.”
I love seeing other women win. I love being a part of all-women teams. I love running home with my friends to get pizza after we've been out all night. I love waking up the next day and having a morning debrief. I love doing what my great-grandma would’ve never even dreamed of. I love reading books about women who did it for themselves.
I’ll always tell another girl that she’s slaying, and I’ll always confront her ex for cheating on her. I’ll slide up on selfies until my fingers break, and I’ll always tell a woman to stick up for herself, and I’ll help her do it if she can’t. There is something so simple and freeing in being a woman and appreciating other women for being themselves, and finding grace and friendship in the things you have in common. I’ll be a girl’s girl until I die. Women - I love you.