Dear Eve Ensler, I think I Love You

I'm reading this book per a suggestion of a friend:

One word: AWESOME. And I think I may be adding Ms. Ensler to my list of Women I am Huge Fans Of and Want to Emulate a la Mariska Hargitay and Tina Fey. She is the writer of the Vagina Monologues, and as a feminist I find it a huge travesty that I have not seen V.M. but that will quickly be remedied as it is in my Netflicks que. Anyways, there I sat at Starbucks reading her words, and talk about Chicken Soup for the Soul. Because the things she was writing--I've been there. I've felt that. I've said this. I've covered up that. And it hurts. The book is a fictional collection of essays and poems, and, well, I got inspired. I borrowed a few of her words, but these are mostly mine:

why am i twenty four years old and i just realized i was pretty?

why do i even have to be pretty?

why at twenty four did i just realize that i’m smart enough?

why at twenty four did i just realize that being a size eight and one hundred and forty eight pounds is good enough?

why am i twenty four years old and just realizing that it’s okay that i get mad?

why did it take me twenty four years to realize that i am sexy, and that i want it? yup, it.

why at twenty four did i just figure out that there’s more to life then having a ring on my finger?

that maybe i could be happy.

that maybe i

am

enough

by myself

alone

just me.

why am I twenty four years old and just realizing the power of femininity?

that being a woman is beautiful

and strong

and powerful

and scary

that my emotion is beautiful—it is not my weakness

why do i have to convince myself of these things every. day?

why am i twenty four years old and just finding my voice?

why am i twenty four years old and just realizing that if i want to eat four desserts in one day, that does not make me a pig...it just means i know what i want?

why am i twenty four years old and just realizing that I am complicated [and there is power in that]?

and i will

not

cover

it

up.

that is twenty four years too long.

why was admitting that i am a feminist the best and worst day of my life?

maybe because admitting that means that i am strong [or at least trying to be].

why does that scare you so much?

why can i not tell you that i like you [or that i don’t]?

why do i cover up who i am just to please you?

why do i give things up for you?

why can i not say what i mean to say?

why do i play along?

why have i been taught to keep quiet?

because i have a lot to say.

why do i live in a world where you can tell me things like “you can’t be pretty and smart at the same time”

where you think you get to comment on what i look like [and you get to approve]

where you get to tell me that i’m too much

where my strength scares you

where i’m not taken seriously

that i’m too emotional

that you are the one who gets to validate me

that i'm a nag

that i have to walk down the street and be afraid of you

that i'm not as hot as her [and then why do i hate her?]

that you can pay me less

that you think you can have my last name

that you think my body is for your entertainment

that you “have to” throw me the ball just because you think i’m not as good at sports as you

that you think what i have to say isn’t as good as what you have to say

that you can be chubby and rich...and that i just have to keep looking good

that being feminine isn’t good enough for you—you have to be a “man”

without realizing that you are not whole without the feminine

you’re saying that i’m not as good as you are

and that makes me want to run the other way

why do i live in a world where i think i am not

smart enough

pretty enough

sexy enough

skinny enough

pure enough

doing enough

friendly enough

funny enough

strong enough

perfect enough

pleasing enough

that i am

not

enough.

why am i so scared of Me?

Because I am the Good Girl.

I don’t step out of line.

I do not do bad things with boys.

I do not lose control.

I don’t know more then I should.

I ask questions when I know the answers.

I say mean things to try to fit in.

I lose myself for the sake of everyone else.

this is who i was. this is who i am.

but this is not just about me. this is about all of us.

I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar.