When it comes to my peers, I am always the one playing catch up. They’re more… how do I put this… developed. They own more than two bras and maybe have a cheese grater in their kitchen drawers. I wear the same bra every day and still live in a dorm room. There’s no competition. I just watch them from the sidelines, occasionally asking annoying questions about what womanhood is like, to which they reply: “One day, you’ll understand.”
It’s not like I haven’t been desperate to develop. I’ve always wanted to leave my girl-status behind and go all Shania Twain singing Man! I Feel Like a Woman. But the fact of the matter is that, for a long time, maturity hadn’t quite hit me. As much as I craved to learn the secret to being a badass lady-chick, I was just a late bloomer. I was trapped in the realm of the training bra. Pity me.
When I would admit my late blossoming to people, they would often gasp, saying things like, “Wow…I mean… getting ‘it’ at 20 years old is like really late, right?” I would nod my head and mumble “Uh huh,” as if I didn’t already know how stunted I was, as a woman. Even my mom was perplexed.
Then one day, it happened.
I was walking down Angell Street and I just knew, like a sixth sense: I told myself, this is your time—you’re a fucking woman now goddamn it. I exhaled sharply, turned left, and stared onwards into my future.
Yes, I am proud to announce that on September 27th the world of womanhood slapped me in the face and I got it: the drive to get an internship.