Meg

When I was growing up, out of all the Disney princesses, I wanted to be Meg.

Meg was strong, Meg was sassy - Meg didn't need a hero. She played them like bongos, making her own tune out of their libidos. She had long red hair and she didn't hesitate to stare Hades in the face when he was flaming mad or blow out the lantern on Pegasus' head.

To me, at five years old, searching desperately for someone to look up to, Meg was the kindergarten equivalent of a BAMF.

"I'm a damsel. I'm in distress. I can handle this. Have a nice day."

And then I grew up.

I watched movie after movie where the girl just wanted to get the guy - or her interchangeable happily-ever-after. I read books where women were treated like male prizes, or cogs in their plans, or worse - the sex joke for the audience's comic relief - or interchangeable titillation.

And that was when the women were there at all.

But that's movies, you can say. But that's books, you can say. But that's comics, video games, television, blah, blah, bliddy, blah.

That's real life.

I grew up, and I heard my friends say, "You can't get fat, else boys won't like you." I heard my friends say, "I think it's a compliment when boys fight over me." I heard my friends say, "Everything's going to change now that I'm dating So-and-So." I heard my friends say, "He broke up with me - my life is over."

And the boys - the men - y'all think this is silly. That's just women. This is the natural order, the status quo.

You've heard enough feminist rants to know better.

So you write a female character - you don't want her to be like those other women. She cannot be silly. She cannot chase a guy for her happily-ever-after. She's got to be woman PLUS.

Give her some strength. Give her some sass. This woman doesn't need a hero - she can be her own. How? Well, she's got long red hair, and a voice that stinks of sex - she can play men like bongos and stare down her villains even when they're flaming mad.

That makes her a role model.... right?

Meg sold her soul for a guy who screwed her over. Meg's new employer used her, made her a cog in the machinery of his master plan. Meg could play men's libidos like bongos - if the bongos were sentient, and sometimes wouldn't take no for an answer. Meg ultimately sacrificed her life for the immortality of a man. And when he brought her back, it was not about her. It was about the strength of his heart, and not about the strong, sassy woman on his arm.

Hercules got immortality for being willing to sacrifice his life for Meg's. What did Meg get when she died for him?

Is she remembered in the stars?

When I was growing up, I wanted to be Meg.

And then I grew up. I realized that the last thing I ever want to be is Meg - just another misconception of what a woman can be.

Fuck heroes. Fuck being the sex joke, and the titillation. Fuck being a prize, or a cog of mindless machinery. Fuck selling my soul for someone else - self-sacrifice is not a wondrous virtue. Fuck being someone else's damsel in distress.

I want my own goddamned story, and the ending of it sure as hell isn't some guy. There is no need to play men like bongos when you're willing to take a sword and run them through.

Instead, there is a woman. She's strong and sassy, sure. She may or may not be attractive. Sometimes she gets in trouble, and frequently she gets herself out. This does not diminish the times when she must ask for help. She's got her own machinations to put in play, and sometimes she manipulates men using their dicks like joysticks. But other times, she treats them like just one more monster standing in her way that must be slain. She puts herself first, because how can she help others, if she cannot help herself? She may or may not have romantic entanglements, and those entanglements may or may not last.Those people have their own stories - they will not hijack hers. This woman does not care what others may or may not think about her. It doesn't matter if she's fat, or if boys are silly enough to fight over her, because she doesn't want such immature douchebags anyways. She does not expect her life to change depending on the person she dates, because it doesn't affect much more than whom she goes home with at the end of the day.

But no matter what else, at the end of my story, there's just me. The stars hold my image and immortalize my adventures.

And, really, there is no such woman as the one to which Meg is meant to be the antithesis. There's no such woman as Meg, either. We are told again and again and again that both these characters exist. We are told that they are a reflection of who women are and of who women are meant to be. We are told lies about our reality, and we do our best to reshape it in the image of those falsehoods.

I grew up. I do not want to be Meg.

I want to be myself.

Worst Case

"Tell me your story," she said, leaning toward me.

I blinked at her.

She was pretty, I suppose. Her t-shirt was wrinkled, the logo concealed in the folds, and her blonde, almost colorless hair was tangled and frizzing from the storm winds she'd walked in from. She hadn't bothered with make-up, but her attitude rendered the lack of cosmetics irrelevant. She had a calm that seemed to come from knowing that she liked herself, and that no one's opinion was going to change her own on that count. Besides, there's just something attractive about a woman who just doesn't give a fuck if her lips are chapped or if there's a zit coming in next to her nose ring.

"Well?" she demanded.

"Um...." I bit my own lip and watched my fingernails tap the white ceramic coffee cup. "What do you want to know?"

"Your story, doll," she huffed good-naturedly. "How did you end up here, sitting in this coffee shop, on a date with a woman you only know by a friend's description? No one ends up in that situation without a story of some kind."

Wow. She was forward.

I shifted uncomfortably, damning the combination of my flowy short skirt and the too-hot leather seat. I took a long draught of my coffee and winced. It needed a bit more sugar and significantly less heat.

I finally looked at her again.

Her eyebrows were raised, her lips pulled off to one side, slightly upturned. She rested her elbows on the table, arms open, palms up. Her iced chai sat square between them, sweating and puddling.

"I don't really know," I said. "I guess I was... bored?"

She nodded oddly, kind of scooping her chin forward.

"Yeah, bored," I affirmed. "No offense."

She backhanded the comment away with a limp wrist.

"None taken. Boredom can be a great impetus for adventure."

I caught myself looking at the table when I smiled, and I forced myself to make eye contact. I desperately wanted to avoid being rude.

"I'm not actually great with adventures. But yeah, I suppose. It'd been a while, you see. I broke up with my last boyfriend last fall semester...."

I paused, waiting for her to interrupt here.

Her gaze didn't waver. She made that odd scooping nod again, and settled one finger beneath a cheekbone.

I took a deep breath.

"There was just... something missing, I guess. The dates were fine. The sex was fine." I crossed my legs tightly under the table. "He was nice enough."

I settled my hands in my lap, pressing my skirt down my thighs, as I shrugged my shoulders.

"I thought it might get better after that. You know, since being single's supposed to be so much fun."

She chuckled at that. "Who told you that lie, sweetie?"

I found I liked the way her eyes crinkled.

I quickly involved myself in taking a sip of my too-bitter and too-hot coffee.

"Society, I suppose," I muttered, setting the mug back on the table with a clink that startled me with how loudly it rang through the coffee shop.

Was it quiet enough that people could hear our conversation? I eyed the young man at the next table over, his head dropped into his hands as he pored over a textbook. I took an unsteady breath when I realized he had long white wires dangling from his ears.

"I'm guessing that single-dom didn't turn out so hot," she prompted, gently.

"Uh, yeah." I tried to smile at her. "It was awful. I did single things. You know. I went to parties. I went to bars. I went to clubs. I had bad sex and worse hookups."

She scoop-nodded again, eyes intent on me.

I laughed a little, but it was more bitter than mirthful.

"It wasn't all that fun. The guys - " I held my mouth open for a moment, and then clicked my lips shut. "The sex - " I tried again, only to bring my hand to my lips as I faltered once more.

Her eyebrows rose. I probably blushed.

"It was... predictable," I concluded, dropping my hand onto the table, palm down. "It always went the same way."

Her finger moved from her cheek to her lower lip, and tapped once or twice. Her nails were unshaped and unpolished.

"How so?"

I sighed, and pursed my lips.

"I'd meet a guy. I'd think he was reasonably attractive, maybe even funny, or smart. If he seemed interested, I'd let him know I was down, but not, you know, locked down. I'm not an insta-relationship girl."

I found it easy to meet her gaze when I said this.

"We'd have sex or hook up or not. Sometimes I'd see him again after that, maybe two, maybe three times. But nothing ever really..."

I waved my hand vaguely above my coffee mug.

"Manifested?" she offered.

"Yeah." I bit my lower lip. "And it was boring."

"Huh." She tapped her lip with her finger again, shrugging with the corners of her mouth. "So, what made you think you might try a blind date with a woman instead?"

My laugh was reflexive. I felt warm coffee coat the side of one finger as I scrabbled at my mug for a sip.

She gave me a moment, taking a long draw of her chai through her straw.

I wiped my hand off on my skirt.

"Well...." My voice came out high-pitched. I cleared my throat.

"Well, I was just... ready for a change, I guess." I watched spilled coffee wend its way down the white ceramic to the table. I didn't want to see her react. "Jessa's always been more flexible than I am, and, um... she has fun, you know? Her love life doesn't seem formulaic at all."

I snuck a quick look at her. She noticed, and smiled encouragingly.

"So.... I dunno. I - I asked her if she knew anyone."

My skin peeled away from the leather seat as I fidgeted.

"And, well, you know Jessa...."

She grinned at me now. I hesitated, but smiled with her.

"Yeah, I know Jessa." Her hand dropped to the table, making it very easy to see how pretty that smile made her. "The phrase 'social butterfly' was coined to describe your roomie."

"Seriously," I agreed. "She was the kid that 'stranger danger' was meant to scare to safety."

When she laughed at that, her chuckle moving up to a note high enough to be a hiccup, I really did grin at her. She was cute.

"But, yeah," I continued. "Of course Jessa knew someone. She started telling me about this marvelous person."

"Yeah?" She leaned back a little.

"This marvelous person who likes to go white water rafting and mountain climbing and is up for trying just about anything once and wants to be a history teacher and makes plate armor on the weekends...."

A small blush crept into her cheeks and she briefly pressed on hand to the nape of her neck. The folds of her t-shirt shifted, and I saw that the logo was the ship Serenity.

"Oh, yeah," I said. "She just went on and on describing you, telling me all these things that you like and do and dream. Like, she told me that you volunteer at the animal shelter repairing fences because you can't have a dog in your apartment, but miss being around animals. All this detail. And I was... mesmerized."

The pitch of my voice dropped on that last word.

We smiled at each other over our drinks. In tandem, we both took sips.

I didn't notice or care how bitter the last dregs of my cooling coffee were.

Our empty cups clicked as we set them back on the table.

"Anyways, Jessa waited until I was all but set to marry you, sight-unseen, before she slipped in, 'Oh, yeah, and she's a girl.'"

"Yeah?" she asked. Her tone was light, but she was watching me very carefully. "Did you freak?"

I smoothed my skirt down again, recrossing my legs.

"A little," I conceded. "But... I dunno...." I laughed, sincerely this time.

"I guess you just sounded like such a wonderful person, I... didn't really care. I wanted to meet you. And... I figured - " I threw my hands up into the air beside my head. "What the hell? Worst case, I don't like you and you don't like me, but at least I did something different."

She rolled her lower lip into her mouth, and looked up at me through her lashes, slow and smoldering.

"Now that's a story, doll."

"I mean.... I guess."

"So.... Is this the worst case scenario?" She eyed me sort of sideways with the question, kind of rocking side to side in her chair.

"I-" My words got caught in a smile, and I bit my lip closed, glancing toward my shoulder and then back at her. "I don't think so."

I reached across the table and lightly touched the back of her hand, just the tips of my first three fingers resting on the tendon of her index finger. Her skin was soft, and warm, and just a little bit damp from the condensation on her cup.

"I don't think so," I repeated.

Fragile

I manage to forget -
 Mostly.

There are sunny days where I luxuriate
in the warm red color inside my eyelids,
mapping delicate capillaries as if they lead to my future.
I trace my upward trajectory with a twisted half-smile.

If there's irony in that smile,
it's because the edges of my vision
aren't meant to tilt away from me.
My head is only tangentially related to my spine:
a sweet, but too-eager kiss could decapitate me.
My smiles have never stood on steady ground.

But it's a sunny day,
so my sweat sticks my warm skin to a plastic lounge chair,
And yesterday -
banging on the coffin door as loam sifts down,
desperate coughs fighting adrenaline and soil to get to oxygen,
unable to see even the bloody ends of my fingers in the too-close darkness,
let me out let me out let me out! -
is just another half-repressed vision,
a scene from a story I thought about writing.

I tuck my broken nails inside a fist.

These sunny days are curtains I draw closed
around the mussed and crinkled sheets
of the hospital bed I clambered from -
Conceal it, hide it, call it by another name -
The nurses do not change the linens.

Air and Anchors

I wish you were here. I miss you like a postponed inhalation. I need your warmth here beside me, reassuring me, telling me my fears are invalid, that I am not simply second best, my friend's runner up. I am in her shadow in many ways - I need my relationship with you to not be one of them.

I am terrified, like a child chained below water, fighting an anchor to have my next breath be air. I know that, in some way, you will always love her. She shaped you, like a stake guides the growth of a tree. But that part of you is now formed - it is no longer necessary for the stake to be there. You must let her go.

I'm not sure I can stay if you insist on keeping yourself tethered to her.

I don't know why you're not here tonight. Last night, you nuzzled close to me at the dinner table, ignoring our friends, and sighed about how much you missed me, that it had been too long. I exchanged a sardonic glance with her across the table. We could both read the body language of everyone around us, and could see your friend's defiance - "I slept with her, so what?" - and your guilty jealousy.

I want to believe that you missed me. I know it's more likely that you wanted to miss me, wanted to deny that you really missed her - even though you've spent the last nine months claiming to be in love with me. I hope hope hope that you really did miss me.

"I want to see you tomorrow," you said. "I don't care if it's not until late," you said. "Even if it's just for a few minutes," you said.

But now that she is gone, you are elsewhere.

If my prose hammers at your chest like a series of dangerous accusations, striking far too close to the truth for your comfort, I am not sure I am sorry.

When you and your friends parted ways from us last night, she and I made new friends to spend the evening with. I complained to them of how stifled I felt with you, bitter that I felt so consumed by you when you seemed to be feeding yourself to this expired, now out-of-circulation idea of my friend, your old flame.

I said semi-awful things aloud, but privately called to mind every reason I fell in love with you.

Your sweetness.

Your delight in puns, and the way you always call me "goofy" when I share one.

Your vaguely super-villainous laugh, the one you emit when something funny slowly soaks into your mind, gaining humor as it goes.

Your steady, calm tolerance when I'm going over the edge, losing my temper over small fish in small ponds.

Your eager willingness to discuss the brokenness of society's arbitrary sexual mores, and the way your eyebrows crunch toward your nose when you point out that same arbitrary brokenness in yourself.

Your desire to desire to have adventures, even as you sit on your couch to play the same old video games, and fall comfortably into worn routines.

I wonder if I will ever really be able to appreciate these things again. Because, my love, I need to talk to you, to ask you about my friend, your old flame. I need to see you, to have you bring it up, address it, say a eulogy for the situation and for your love for her. Then I will be able to smile, forgive you for leaving me uneasy, and continue on with you, indulging my love. The anchor will fall away from my ankle, and I will gulp in air with the appreciation of a girl who had almost accepted that she was going to drown.

But if you wait for me to bring it up, and then lie about your feelings, I will know. I will know that you did not miss me. I will know that, for you, I am second best, my friend's runner up. I will know that your stupid, impotent jealousy over her is more important to you than the past nine months, when you claimed to be in love with me. Worst of all, I will know that those semi-awful things I said to our new friends were true, and I will be forced to break my own heart as I break it off with you.