When Are You Going to Behave Like a Real Woman?

A glimpse of gender policing through the eyes of a woman

It starts so young. They tell you from the moment you are born. Do you get a pink blanket or a blue one?

You are dressed in onesies that read “Daddy’s Little Girl,” and “I’m not allowed to date until I’m 25.” You’re not even a year old and already the perfect virgin.

Then one day, they yell at you from the kitchen window to put your shirt back on while you’re running through the sprinklers. You look indecent, for god’s sake! But you can’t figure out why. Your little nipples look exactly like Mikey’s from next door, and he’s streaking across the lawn in nothing but his underpants and no one told him to put his shirt back on.

They tell you to stop doing flips on the monkey bars — for god’s sake, everyone can see under your skirt! But you’re wearing panties and tights, so you’re not sure what anyone is looking at.

And good lord, please keep your knees together when you sit down. It’s not right to have your legs flung open. You still don’t know why, and you look enviously at your cousin, Sam, who is sitting exactly that way. With his hand down his pants. This only elicited one frown from his mama, an expression of displeasure that did nothing to remedy the situation. Well, at least you know not to do that. But why on earth can’t you sit like the boys do?

At school, Friday afternoon chapel forces you to sit through forty-five minute lectures about your purity, warning you that failing to guard that purity will cost you your reputation — and your soul. You’re ten years old. You know they’re talking about “doing stuff” with boys, but the thought of even holding hands makes you want to throw up. They keep droning on about how to be a good girl, but no one tells the boys how to be good, and really, all you want is to go home and ride around the cul-de-sac on your bicycle.

It gets worse when you hit puberty. Could you please put on a bra — you look like you’re asking for it, walking around like that. Maybe you should put some Band-Aids over your nipples, too. And what are you thinking with that tank top? Go put your turtleneck on, or the nice button-up — so long as it’s buttoned all the way up.

They don’t call on you in class. Sometimes, your teachers will mention that you constantly raising your hand is “aggressive” and “pushy.” When you express confusion about an assignment, they accuse you of being “difficult.”

And when you step up in your study group to assign people tasks and start creating a more efficient system, they ask Bobby or Jimmy to take over because you are being “bossy” and “controlling.” You don’t want to be like that, do you? But you kinda do, even though you can plainly see everyone else is uncomfortable with your behavior.

That’s when Susan leans over, filing one long pinky nail, and hisses into your ear, “You’re acting like a dude. Chill out.”

In college, everyone is obsessed with your body count to determine if you’re a slut or a saint. It only takes one premarital sexual partner to put you in the former category. And it doesn’t really matter if you actually had sex — a heavy petting session is just as damning. You’re reminded again and again that if you want a good man and good prospects in life, you’d better keep those knees together. (Oh, maybe that’s what they meant all those years ago…)

In your twenties, they tell you to go out there and make something of yourself. But only for a minute, because the most noble profession a woman can have is that of wife and mother. Don’t stick around in the workforce for too long, they warn, or you’ll miss your window. And sometimes, no matter how much you love your job, you’re counting the days until you walk down that aisle and finally get pregnant because you are so tired of your colleagues calling you “shrill” every time you raise an objection, or “overly-sensitive” every time you call out the male colleagues who talk over you during meetings.

Shh, they say. Shh, they’ve always said. Just be quiet and do what you are supposed to do.

Then you do but they whisper about how fat you got. Sure, you had a baby, but it wasn’t supposed to be like this. Don’t you wanna be sexy for your man? Don’t you want him to be proud to have you on his arm? Girl, you gotta lose all that weight.

But you’re not sleeping and you’re getting older. There are bags under your eyes and your hair is showing streaks of gray. They remind you this is not okay. Get some better makeup. Put ice packs on your face when you wake up. Dye that hair. Maybe just get some Botox.

Don’t you want your kids to be proud you’re their mama? Don’t you want your daughters to learn how to take pride in their appearance?

You go to the salon. You take up jogging. You get up extra early to put on that goddamn eye mask straight out of the freezer. Then at school, you hear the whispers of all the other moms. So selfish, you are, taking all that time for yourself. A real woman would put her kids first.

You ponder that as your husband reminds you he wants to have sex more often, but when you comply and actually enjoy it, he admits he feels uncomfortable because he wanted a wife in his bed, not a porn star.

One day, you hit perimenopause and just when you thought you weren’t woman enough, things get even worse. They tell you this could be the end of womanhood if you’re not careful. There’s no worse shame than your appearance alerting people to the fact that you can’t get pregnant anymore — do you really want to advertise that?

Now there’s no getting out of your bedroom duties if you want to make sure your husband won’t find himself a younger model. (Just remember not to enjoy it too much…) And you’ll definitely have to get back into that jogging routine and cut out all fats and carbohydrates from your diet so you don’t get fat. Please don’t get fat. Real women are delicate and beautiful, like birds.

You do everything you can, but he does leave you for a younger woman. She’s 29 and she’s pregnant before he even tells you about her or mentions the word divorce. “She’s so loving and nurturing,” he tells you. “A real woman.”

While they build a new family, people seem impatient with you. Shouldn’t you do something with your life? Maybe volunteer at the local soup kitchen or become a teacher?

And by the way, why aren’t your daughters married yet? What is this nonsense about them wanting to break the glass ceiling and make it all the way to the C-suite? Don’t they know real women don’t do that? Not unless they’re hiding a pair of balls under their dresses…

By the time your CEO and CFO daughters have babies, you’ve hit your menopausal stride and are traveling the world on your own, proud as punch of your bravery. But damn, they say. You should be home helping with those babies. What kind of woman isn’t there to help her daughters through motherhood?

At the end of your sixties, they say you’re through. It’s over.

“Doesn’t it seem like women should die when their periods stop?” you hear your ex-husband ponder to the pastor at your newest granddaughter’s baptism party. “Isn’t it a waste for a human to be alive when they can’t contribute anything to the human race anymore?”

“That’s what I’m gonna be like when I’m 70,” someone from your son-in-law’s side of the family murmurs nearby, nodding his head toward your ex-husband. “That’s a real man.”

You see him eyeing your ex’s new wife — his third, who is freshly 22, just graduated from college, and six months pregnant.

Just before the party wraps up, you hear everyone praise the baby one last time. Look how pretty she is. She’s so tiny and delicate. Oooo, she looks as stunning as her mama.

You hear the pastor say they’ve got a good little girl there and one day, she’ll be a good woman.

But you know the truth. No one will ever think she’s woman enough.

© Y.L. Wolfe 2023

Y.L. Wolfe is a gender-curious, solosexual, perimenopausal, childless crone-in-training, exploring these experiences through writing, photography, and art. You can find more of her work at yaelwolfe.com. If you love her writing, leave her a tip over at Ko-fi.

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