A Study in Pink

I had an epiphany last week.

Depending on how well you know me, you might or might not be surprised by this. But ladies round the Internet, let me know if this realization rings any bells of recognition in your brain.

I was never a tomboy.

I certainly acted like one. I caught frogs and snakes in the woods, disdained dresses and dolls, and looked down my nose at “frivolous” pursuits like makeup and dating and the color pink. I was HEAVY in the NLOG phase (Not Like Other Girls) to the point of being misogynistic. Everyone called me a little tomboy, and I internalized the image for most of my childhood.

But that wasn’t actually me. It was never “girly” stuff that I hated; it was the PR surrounding it.

When I was really little, I hated dresses, but it wasn’t dresses that I hated. It was the scratchy fabric that dug at my neck and arms. It was the lack of freedom, constantly having to keep the hem down, unable to go really high on a swing without showing off my Strawberry Shortcake underpants. Being unable to crawl around on the floor and pretend to be a dog, which was my favorite game. Looking at the soft cotton dresses that little girls wear now, with the leggings and biker shorts they wear underneath… if that had been an option I would have been all over dresses.

I also hated dolls, but it wasn’t dolls that I hated. It was the cheap hard plastic they were made of, the stiff arms and legs that could never stand properly and were impossible to cuddle and sleep with. And they were always babies, which didn’t do anything interesting in my eight year old opinion. My sister had a Cabbage Patch Doll, and I coveted it desperately, because finally there existed a doll that looked like a regular kid that could sleep in bed with me. I never got one, though. I’m not sure if my parents knew how badly I wanted one; I was a pretty quiet kid.

I got a lot of praise for being a tomboy from the adults in my life. (Pretty sure my dad wanted a boy and I was the next best thing.) Girls have always been treated as less-than by society in general, so I was treated like a well-trained dog that could walk around on its hind legs. “Look, she thinks she’s people!” From there I internalized the concept of girly pursuits as inferior, bubble-headed nonsense. That did not help my social life, as you can imagine. Girls treated me like a traitor. Boys treated me like either a mascot or prey.

It took years for me to come around and realize that liking pink doesn’t make you brainless and makeup is actually an artistic skill that takes a lot of work and practice. It was a long, gradual process. And it makes me a little angry to think of how much time I wasted thinking that I hated pink when what I actually hated was the way society treats people who like pink.

I’m still not crazy about putting it on babies, though. Not for any political reasons, but because no color shows dirt and stains faster. Stick with primary colors until your kid is potty trained, at least.