Just a woman

Below is an excerpt from my journal from last year. I remembered it again because I came across The Michigan Quarterly Review, which is dedicated exclusively to the subject of "The Female Body."

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Feminine solitude, at high altitude

The feminine life is so short. Not biologically, but culturally. Womanhood is a very elegant, beautiful, and charming 33-year window. The culturally celebrated feminine arc stretches (generously) from 18 to 49.999.

I'm 34. The exact middle of the woman I'm allowed to be. At the summit of my feminine life. The view is spectacular, and I refuse to spend it looking at my watch.

Up here, alone, what's not to love about being a woman? If I ignore all of the noise surrounding women in the world (and trust me, there is so much of it), if I ignore all of that, and stay here on my mountain peak. I am alone high up in the sky. I'm 34. Soft cheeks, big eyes, long hair, small waist, curved hips, soft hands, jewelry, and silk dress

I want to savor every second, minute, hour, day, week, month, year, and decade of my female life. At that midnight, when I turn 50, I'll be, according to culture, officially a pumpkin. But that's not today. Today feels eternal: feminine solitude at altitude.

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What you can't be at 17. What you can't be at 50

At 17	At 50
Woomnhood is novelty	Womanhood is nostalgia
You're too young to wear a miniskirt	You're too old to wear a miniskirt
You just got your period	You just went through menopause
You're too young to have a child	It’s reasonable to have a grandchild
Pregnancy is a scandal. You’re warned not to get pregnant	Childlessness is a tragedy. You’re pitied because you didn’t

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I just started reading the "Female Body" Issue. This is the first essay I read in the issue.