How do you define yourself?
I am the Glamazon—the six-foot blonde (okay, 5'11) with a surgically-enhanced body who loves to sparkle in heels and shiny lip gloss. I am the Glitter Slug, who leaves a slow trail of spangles behind her wherever she goes. Several times lately I've made reference to myself with a very colorful, publicly-inappropriate characterization that includes the words "batshit" and "beast".
Growler called me out on it, to listen carefully to what I was saying about myself, both to others and to me.
"Is that all that you are?" she asked.
I am a mother, a writer, an ex-wife. I'm a friend, a confidante, a lover. Sometimes I am an enemy and a source of vexation and misery, both from my own perspective and from others'. And sometimes I am a raging fucking bitch.
At any given moment, all of those things are true. Who I am is relative to when I am, as well as to whoever is on the receiving end of my energy.
With the boys, I am perpetually the mother, though sometimes I am the enemy. With my parents, I am always the daughter, though I am also sometimes still just the child. With my friends, I am a strange mix of mother and daughter and ex-wife and friend and confidante, all wrapped up in a big, glittery bow.
With men, though, I tend to be the Golden Kitten (see Persona Non Grata for the full definition) and rely heavily on my sexuality as a defining characteristic. Honestly, it's hard to miss and garners both attention and acclaim, though sometimes to my own detriment. I am consistently a flirt but am generally very capable of staying distant from unwanted attention. When I want the attention, though, that is when the beast blinks her long lashes and licks her bright, shiny lips in anticipation—both theirs and mine. I am very adept at using my charms to get a man's attention, as well as to keep it if I think it's waning.
There's an aftermath of letdown that can come from that, though. The initial rush of lust may ebb quickly, especially if I become bored. If I find a man to be uninteresting or substantially less intelligent than I, I will back away almost sadly; to have put the energy into it just to be disappointed—in another person or in my own judgment—feels fruitless. I know in my head that there's something to be learned in those exchanges, no matter how brief, but it still can feel like a waste of my damn time.
Sometimes I am just a mess. I can be a petulant, little brat. I can have moments when I dismiss all of the lessons I've learned and just screw the fuck up.
All of these definitions of me depend on the moment in my day, in my life, and where I am or who is watching. The people closest to me are able to see through the bullshit bravado and tell me the truth as they see it. They are able to see me and to love me, no matter which me I am projecting. Even when I am infuriating and loud and obsessive and bawdy, they know there are profound moments of quiet and sadness and deep, loyal love that are theirs for the taking—even when they don't ask. But for me to willingly show those aspects of Stephanie to another person makes me the prey. It makes me feel vulnerable, all Hunger Games style, like Katniss running toward the Cornucopia for everything she needs to survive.
The best definition of me is made
when all of those things come together, when the Golden Kitten can be still,
curled up quietly while wearing little more than her glittery, pink heels. It's a rare moment, truly, when the pretense can
fall away, when I can feel safe and trusting enough to let my guard down and
just love another person. That is when I am most undeniably, most
fiercely, and most extraordinarily Stephanie.
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