Struggling with labels again

Wow. It's been awhile. I've been AWOL, MIA, all of those things. I have a stack of excuses, most of which are boring and not particularly truthful explanations of what I've been doing since May. Let's leave them be, shall we?

Once upon a time, I wrote a post about being labelled. Why? Well, read the post if you really want to know. Suffice to say, I don't want to be stuck in a box and left there.

Which is why I find myself struggling with the movers once again these days. I'm seven months pregnant and striving mightily to avoid the deaded "mother" label. Not that I mind being a mother–quite the opposite. I'm looking forward to it with equal parts fear and fascination.

No, my problem arises with the comments, the assumptions, the expectations that accompany that particular life change. "Oh, it's the most wonderful/important/fufilling/insert your term here thing you'll ever do with your life."

Really? Truly? My entire life will now be defined by the biological process of passing my genes on to the next generation? If it was so miraculous, it would be a whole lot harder to get pregnant in the first place.

I'm not saying I won't love the kid, or that being a parent isn't something damn important. It just isn't the be all and end all of my life. It's a part of it, a section of the box. I don't think it's selfish or horrible for saying that, either, or that anyone has the right to look down their nose at me for saying so.

I plan on going back to work, maybe even back to school after I have my child. Call me crazy, but I imagine my child will grow into a much more well adjusted individual in a household where his or her parents are personally and professionally fufilled.

To be honest, I haven't received nearly as much flak over the "mother" label as I have the "bride" label. Oh yes, first comes love, then comes...oops. I screwed up the order. After baby comes the wedding, later this summer. And boy have I discovered that I HATE the bridal industry.

I hate the expectations. I hate white dresses. I hate high heels. I hate overpriced goods. I hate assumptions, like that I'll get married in a church, or have speeches, or throw a bouquet. Grumble grumble grumble.

Again, what I hate most is the comment, "Oh, it's the most important/happiest day of your life." Once again, I really hope not. Every day after is going to be one big letdown? No thanks, I'd rather not get married then.

"Every little girl dreams of this day." No, this one didn't. Seriously. It wasn't a dream of mine to walk down the aisle in a frou frou white dress and a veil, or choke down horrible fruitcake and fondant. I was too busy doing little kid things like making mud pies and riding bicycles.

It is an important day, but why is it any more important than the day I started my own business, or graduated from university, or scaled a mountain summit?

I'm not a rabid feminist. I just hate labels.

Women being stupid

I don't have a link for this one, but I'm sure if I searched, I'd come up with something. Not sexist or ignorant, but other women realizing that we do damn stupid things sometimes.

I'm a woman, and I'm not trying to insult other women. I'm merely speaking truth. Women can be stupid. I know, because I am one and I do stupid things.

That doesn't mean I'm not intelligent. In fact, some of the most highly intelligent women I know are the reason I'm writing about this today.

The other day I caught myself musing about the future. It's something I do often these days. I've been pondering a move to a larger centre, to another part of the country. Thoughts of an extended overseas journey have crossed my mind as well.

After about fifteen minutes of blissful daydreaming, I abruptly stopped and slapped myself (figuratively, though I have been known to literally do so). Why? Because I was basing my musings around the whims of men, my chances of starting a new relationship. On assauging this guilt I've been handed down, telling me a woman my age should be married and starting a family.

Women have been defining themselves by their relationships to men for, well, ever. Girlfriend, wife, mother, partner...feminists tried to raise our consciousness. It's more than fine for me to be a single woman approaching thirty. We're supposed to be independent and strong enough to follow our own path. Why then do so many of us still use these labels to determine our worth?

I thought I was a strong, independent woman, until I started looking at my track record. This Christmas, my 28th, was the first in 13 years I spent single. Yep. Since I was fifteen, there has been a boyfriend upon which I have based part of my identity. That's not healthy for anyone. All it creates is a war inside me between the need to be a part of a man's world and the need to be myself. Push come to shove, fear always wins.

Now, I made choices for myself during this time frame. I made the choice to move far from my high school boyfriend in order to pursue higher education. I left bad relationships and made risky career choices in order to prove that I could do anything. In the end, though, the serial monogamist took over.

Even while in healthy relationships, I would adjust my behaviour and dreams to meet or compliment my partner. I would occasionally seem helpless in order to make a man feel needed when I was perfectly capable of performing the task at hand (and better then he ever could). For the most part, I have no problems telling men they are wrong, and proving I am right, unless that man is my significant other.

I shake my head now, but I thought at the time that compromise was how relationships worked. My problem was that I was the only one compromising, and all I was compromising was myself. I'm not the only one, either.

I know incredibly intelligent and capable women that are stuck in relationships with absolute assholes. Yet, they stay because they "love" them. They are comfortable, there are kids to consider, they are afraid to leave, afraid to be alone...they are stupid. They define themselves by this relationship, letting it determine their self-worth. It's enough to drive me crazy!

At the same time, fear holds me back too, affecting my choices in other ways. If I chose to do this, to live here, to chase this dream, would he still love me? If I reach my full potential, will men be intimidated by me? Would I end up alone, eating ice cream and pickles, watching romantic comedies and singing Pat Benatar songs? Actually, it doesn't sound that bad.

It's not the man's fault. He has no idea what all this is about, because he has no problems (usually) defining himself outside of his relationship to you. Talk to him about all this, and he'll just look baffled. He doesn't spend his days in a fantasy land where princess charming swoops in and looks after his every need. He's probably dreaming about the girl in accounting giving him a blowjob in the mail room.

I resolved, at the end of my last relationship, to chase my own dreams, not attaching them to someone else, to someone else's expectations of me. Until yesterday, when I caught myself doing that very thing. Stupid me.

Why do I do this? As far as I can figure out, it's a cop out. By not trying to recognize and achieve my own dreams, I can't fail. If someone asks me, years from now, why I never tried, I can point proudly to the self-sacrifice I made in order to be a good girlfriend/wife/daughter/mother.

What a load of crap. I may be pre-programmed to feel this need for a man, this need to please others and sacrifice myself, but I'm rewriting the code. If you can't handle a confident, beautiful, intelligent woman who wants to chase her own dreams and is most likely smarter than you, you probably aren't worthy of her time in the first place.