Disaster is approaching the edge of my skirt. Not just a girl. A Indian girl, living in the city, away from home is not uncommon, but it is never easy. After being a bridesmaid in my best friend’s wedding several weekends ago the waters began to stir and I got caught in the current. Mom: “A boy’s mother was asking about you.” Of course being a bull-headed, independent, Desi daughter I grunted and refused to even look in the direction of the suitor. Mostly because I was preoccupied with friends and also because that is far from my present agenda, very far from. Afterward I thought about it and wondered if I was too rash, perhaps I should’ve considered? Nah, I thought, and proceeded to dance with my friends.
I am a Girl-Woman. Neither here, nor there. I struggle with the term "woman" because it is so definitive. I prefer to pick and choose when I want to be a woman. On the weekends, a girl. At home with Mom and Dad, a Tomboy. At work, absolutely a woman. While on a date, a lady. With girlfriends, a girl-woman. Whatever the situation calls for I’ll conform. I don’t feel I have to make that decision at twenty-five. I can rock heels and a pencil skirt if need be, and sport sandals and a baby doll dress the next day if the mood calls for it. The choice is mine for a short period of time. Not much longer, but I have a few years to salvage as a girl and I’ll take it, thank you very much. Suitors can wait while I continue with my tea parties, dress-up and girl talk for now. The mischievously demure manner of which a girl possesses is not an easy transition to the provocative and intense nature of womanhood. There is a pale pink area, almost fuchsia, not white nor crimson, where us Girl-women fall under.
Though it will be catching up with me before I know it, I have the best of both worlds at the moment and I adore it.
