Stubborn

Some may say I’m stubborn. I just say I’m strong-minded.

Some may say I obsess. I call it perseverance and determination.

Some may say I’m not a real woman. I say I don’t need a man to prove my femininity. Not to anyone. Not ever.

Women have gone through so many struggles in life, pushing the boundaries of society, to make us just as equal as men. To be seen as perfectly able humans. To do things otherwise categorized as masculine. Women tended to factories and farms in the 1920’s when men were at war. They are expected to give birth to babies – enduring the greatest pain known – and be able to raise them as well, married or not. Women – us, we, me – are brought up knowing we can achieve things from being a plumber if we wanted to or being the President of the United States.

Then why, I ask, is it socially unacceptable to be boyfriend-less at the age of twenty? Why was it considered completely pointless to do your hair or make-up or even get up in the mornings when you didn’t have a man by your side, attached to your arm, or waiting for you in his convertible when you are perfectly able to walk home or take the bus on your own?

Like the many great women of our time who wondered why we weren’t allowed to vote, or why we were paid less, or why we weren’t qualified for jobs like doctors or lawyers, I question: Why do we need a man?

My mother was married by twenty – had kids by twenty-three. My aunt was never married, but she was never without a boyfriend. I, being the third woman in the immediate family to reach the right, bold age of twenty and not have a man to settle down with, was beginning to wear my mother thin. Which is why I moved out. Picked up my stuff and decided to make a new life for myself where great expectations and arranged marriages didn’t exist.

I’m not a hopeless romantic, but I’m not a cynical prude either. I’d like to think I was somewhere in the middle; in the non-existent part where my mind really didn’t pay too much attention to it. Was it strange to say that I liked being alone? Sure, I had friends, but I liked being in my own bubble; somewhere that no one else could intrude upon. Too many times had I seen a friend heart-broken because of a guy that had gotten inside their head. Too many times had I dealt with messy break-ups that left friendships destroyed. And not once, can I say, I’d found someone that I’d risk all that for.

Some may say I’m stubborn.

I’d probably have to agree.

~

“You’re a lesbian.”

This guy was obviously drunk. How could I tell? Well, he had been saying the same thing for the past ten minutes since I told him my theory about guys and the bachelorette life. And, his eyes were the deepest shade of red. I wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d popped out right there, landing in his glass of wine. I always got the same reaction when I told someone that I didn’t want a boyfriend; didn’t find the undeniable need for one. Because, in this world, women need to be someone’s something – daughter, mother, sister, wife, girlfriend...the list goes on.

The guy, probably in his mid twenties, moved from in front of the table where I was serving desserts to famous sports executives or whatever, and to my side. The stupid uniform they made us wear in these banquet halls was uncomfortable and itched in strange places, leaving me twitching every time I raised my hand to reach for a piece of cake.

“I always get that reaction,” I replied and he smiled broadly.

“Is it true?” he asked, leaning closer towards me, the glass tipping to the point where I was positive my white blouse would soon be crimson. He wiggled his eyebrows in a creepy way and I cringed. Even lesbianism wasn’t a good excuse to get away from men.

I cleared a few crumbs from the table that was decorated with a white, satin table cloth. “Not that I know of. But who knows? Maybe the college experimentation hasn’t kicked in yet.” The guy snorted with laughter, spilling a bit of his drink on the carpeted floors. This was pretty much my job – talking to guests while I refilled their glasses or picked up their empty plates. Usually, it was weddings, but today was a sports function. Hockey I think? It was hard to tell without anyone in their uniforms and the fact that I was never able to stare at anyone for too long to see if I recognized them without people thinking I was weird or unprofessional.

The guy with the pink cheeks and red eyes winked. “Be sure to call me when you figure it out.”

“You’re on the top of my list,” I said sarcastically. I didn’t really care; he was too drunk to notice anyway. The line in front of the dessert table had begun to disperse except for the few people that had come late or still wanted more. I stood with the spatula in my hand as another person began approaching. A tall person. A really tall person. I watched him fill his plate for – what? – the fourth time and realized where I knew him from. TV, posters, magazines. He was hard to miss in the town of Pittsburgh, my new home.

The drunken guy continued swaying on his feet next to me and I wondered how long it would take for him to fall. And where would he fall exactly? Not on the table, I hoped. The tall guest continued forward to my section of the table where he looked at each one of the four cakes.

“Excuse me,” I said, making his head snap up and look at me. I cocked my thumb to the flailing arm tube-man next to me, “Can you collect him?” Mr. Hockey stared at me for a moment, his blue eyes outlined with white by the overhead lights. His face was confused, but I knew only moments ago the two of them were sitting at the same table; laughing and drinking. “He’s asking me if I’m a lesbian.”

His brow furrowed at my last statement, but the hint of a smile on his pink lips couldn’t be mistaken. He found this funny. Did his drunken friend do this at every function, or was I just special?

The glossy-eyed guy moved closer towards me and cocked a thumb in my direction. “She doesn’t want a boyfriend,” he said. “Can you believe that bullshit?” The blonde-haired giant in front of me began shifting desserts on his plate to make them all fit.

I rolled my eyes. “Why is it bullshit? Is it so far from the male mind to comprehend that I like my life being just me?”

There was a silence where only the soft music of the banquet hall and the isolated conversations of different guests were heard. The drunken guy stared down at his feet then up at Mr. Hockey who was now piling deserts on top of themselves to make room on his plate.

“I know girls like you,” he said, licking a bit of icing from his thumb then running his tongue over his top lip. “I’ve dated girls like you.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Then they weren’t like me.” Mr. Blonde Gazillionaire looked at me for a moment, his long fingers still playing with the food on his plate. I always got one of these guys too; the guys who thought they knew my type and who inevitably thought I was just another challenge to achieve. They were the egotistical gender, working only from their primary instincts – hunger, anger, and sex. I looked around at the other guests, glad they weren’t around to listen to this conversation that might cost me my job. Personal issues weren’t supposed to be brought to work. They were supposed to be left at home where they rot and – soon enough –turn to nothing; numbness... According to our head supervisor, that is. He was a strange man at times.

“The girls who don’t believe in love,” he continued (the plate wobbling in his right hand), as though I hadn’t said anything. “Or the girls that are waiting for that one knight in shining armour to sweep them off their feet and carry them into the sunset or whatever.” Yea, because that’s what we think about. The drunk guy snorted next to me and teetered on his heels. “But they all change.” I waited as his blue eyes flickered from my face to the chocolate cake in front of me. “They realize that they have to kiss a few toads before they find their Prince Charming, which – by the way – is a complete myth.”

I titled my head to the side, getting an angled view of this six foot tall statue of a man. “Do they realize this toad thing before or after they date you?” A smirk spread on my face once the drunken guy let out another snort, spilling more of his drink. I picked up the silver spatula on the table and began cutting a big piece of the chocolate cake. That would hopefully keep him from coming back to get another one. “But, that’s where you’re wrong Mr. Staal,” I continued, lifting the piece up and placing it on his plate. He stared at me in slight shock that I knew who he was, yet didn’t make a big deal about it. There goes the ego once again. “I do believe in love.” Placing the spatula back down, I folded my arms over my chest. “I just don’t believe you have to go searching high and low for it.”

Mr. Hockey smiled slightly and pushed his enormous piece of cake closer to the middle of the plate. “Well, then, you’re probably the first. Number one’s a lonely place.” He then grabbed hold of the drunken guy and dragged him back to their table.

And that’s how my days of insanity and questioning my morals began; with one stupid night, at one stupid function, with one stupid hockey player.