I didn’t always know what the word “woman” meant.

Definitionally, it’s easy:

It is an adult human being, distinctively feminine in nature, “woman” being one of the two binary terms we usually use to describe gender.

The “gender” becomes “woman” when you get the blood in your shorts not from being beaten, but from being egged.

Definitonally, I was a woman by 10.

5th grade led to the blood in my shorts, and blood leaping out of my soul, trying to drain myself of everything that was me, even though the “me” had just been defined as “woman.”

And with that, I got some chocolate and BAM! A bona fide beautiful body that had bashfully become “it,” “woman.”

“Woman” was supposed to describe all the things out of place, all the things I wasn’t yet ready for, but seemed to have anyway.

And people continued to call me “it.” At 11, I had a normal woman’s cup size. At 12, I was told I could be a good mother. At 13, I had womanly hips.

“Woman” and “mother” soon began to fill in the blanks that no one could find the words for: “mature” in body and mind, an old soul that had been fit in a young body. “Woman” meant all the things the people five years older than me had that I possessed at 13 by dumb luck.

I was proud of being defined as that “woman.”

But then I grew up. “Woman” no longer meant that you were motherly and mature. It meant that you were a magical materialistic mammal who used the melody of her hips and breasts to get what she wants. And suddenly, I was no longer definable because I didn’t define myself by my body—as a matter of fact, I hid from it.

I wasn’t “woman” because I hated wearing the denim underwear that everyone else seemed to love, because I’d rather sleep than slave over make-up, because I’d rather eat than even think about giving my body anything less than what it deserved.

The world was telling me that I was not a sexy “real woman” because I wasn’t the standard beautiful, because my body wasn’t more important to me than my brain.

“Real women” wore their sexiness on their sleeve instead of their soul.

But, I can tell you right now that I don’t give two shits if you think that being “woman” is just about tits and ass. I can tell you from experience, being a real “woman” is about both tits and tenacity, ass and other assets.

Being “woman” means that I can make the choice everyday to be called “slut” or “saint,” and that I don’t need to be defined by either.

Being “woman” means that I understand that my brain can seduce just as much as figure, being “woman” means that my sway and brain waves go at the same frequency and no, they aren’t mutually exclusive.

So whichever definition you like—I’m both. Go ahead. Call me “mother” because she had to have a little fun to earn that word. Call me “woman” ‘cause I can take you down by the click, click, click of my heels and the tick, tick, tick of my heart.

Definition-ally, emotionally, mentally, morally, physically—I fit because I decided.

I know what “it” means.


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