Eleven years old
The girls who got breasts first got kissed first. I was eleven years old, two girls in my class were there because they had a 'do-over' year, and thus were one year closer to puberty. So they had breasts.
This was the moment where changing clothes for gym class got awkward. The girls looked at the girls, they had breasts. And they didn't know whether to show them off or hide them.
Then the gossip started.
"She and Kevin kissed!", some classmates would say. Kevin was, at least I was made to believe that, the most handsome boy, and also a year or two older than the rest of my classmates.
At some point there was commotion during a break, we were playing outside:
"A condom!" - Kids pointed. A condom on the school square, OMG!
I looked at a teacher, full of surprise. I had never heard that word before.
What was all the fuss about?
Thirteen years old
I was on a swing set in my neighbors' garden. My mother pointed at my chest and shook her head, her expression concerned. She told me "you are now getting at the age you have to watch your shirt, it shows".
She was referencing the two little bumps that grew on my chest. My spaghetti top would not cover those little bumps and she was afraid a male neighbor might 'think' something of it.
I had no idea what he then would think about. I just knew those little bumps hurt all the time.
That year I got a shaving machine for my birthday and the older sister of a friend offered to pluck my eyebrows 'since she wanted to be a beauty specialist'.
My body hair seemed to bother people.
Fifteen years old
Popularity contests all over the school. The pretty girl in the class would have a relationship with the pretty boy in class. The nerdy girl would be hanging with the boys and smoke weed.
I didn't fit either group.
I had my own group, the outcasts who found each other not because of coincidences like being put in a classroom together. We actually liked each other. We all wore wide-legged pants.
Some classmates asked me why I didn't spend my breaks with them. But they all wore hip branded clothes and I didn't know how to even sit with them.
Eighteen years old
I had a very lovely friend. She was perfect. She was small, had all the right curves, the cutest smile, wore subtle but noticeable perfume, liked shopping for the cutest lace strings, had a lovely boyfriend.
She talked about her life and I listened.
I had no idea how to become her.
Twenty-two years old
I was having a job now. No more university. Just got back from traveling Argentina for 2,5 months. I had some money. I was single again. I started thinking about clothes. Could I wear a skirt, maybe? Wouldn't my hips be too wide? My legs not too big and short at the same time?
And, since I medically would never be able to wear high-heels but only sturdy boots with laces, would I look like a fool? Who wears sturdy boots under a skirt? That's not womanly, is it? So why wear a skirt?
I bought two skirts, made my friends confirm I was not looking like a fool and wore them very sporadically.
Were the skirts too short? Or too long?
Twenty-five years old
Dresses are awesome! I look amazing in them! Look at all my curves! Let's celebrate! Look, this dress puts even more emphasis on all my curves! I need to buy more dresses!
I was shopping with my grandmother. I tried on a 50s dress with a wide skirt and a low-cut neckline. I looked in the mirror of the shop and said: "Wow, I look awesome in this."
The shop-owner, a woman, started smiling and said: "You are the first woman in my shop who has ever said that to herself."
Twenty-six years old
I'm walking through New York City. I got here by plane, all alone, from the Netherlands. A female solo-traveler. It's my second time in New York City since it's my favorite place in the world to submerge myself in great museums, bagels, parks, people, coffee bars and take pictures. I'm 26 and the coolest photographer walking these streets baby!
Tourists are asking me for directions a few times a day. I must look like I belong here.
The day before I bought a grey body-con dress, I'm wearing black leggings and black sturdy boots. After a lot of street art photography in Williamsburgh, I find a bathroom in a hipster coffee bar.
Suddenly I find myself in a space where the walls are covered in all kinds of photos and depictions of women, naked women, women from magazines men like to look at.
My hear is greasy and I wear the best dress ever. No-one can see since it's under a blue trenchcoat. But I know. And I'm here. Feeling strong and independent and utterly inspired by all I've seen and experienced. Surrounded by all the women who would have intimidated me just a few years ago.
I think it's time to make a bad-ass self-portrait.
[I belong]
Shout OUT
Today I want to give a shout-out to some of the amazing women on Steemit I've had the pleasure of meeting and sometimes already get to know better. I look up to these women because they are either or all: creative, smart, talented, bad-ass, daringly vulnerable, pleasantly opinionated, supportive and/or have simply made me smile at some point during my short Steemit adventure.
Thank you for adding so much value to our Steemit adventure:
(And I already know I will wake up this night because I forgot one or two names. You know who you are!)
