There are plenty of things I deem as gross. Jello, is gross. Those bugs with 800 legs that show up on your bedroom wall right as you are about to fall asleep, are gross. Drunk Cubs fans who think they are so amazingly charming as they slur “Go Cuuuuuubssswanna suck my faccccce hot ass?” are gross. My secret love for the show, Wife Swap, is gross. But what may gross me out more than anything is when I see someone mockingly play out a stereotype of someone, that I realize, is just like me. GROSS!
I’m a European mutt, 26-year-old woman, who lives in Chicago, dabbles in yoga, goes running, eats organic food and watches Grey’s Anatomy. If people assume something about me, they are usually right. God, I hate that. The other day, a few co-workers of mine were comparing a situation to Sex in the City. One of my male co-workers turned to me and said, “Well you watch Sex in the City, right?” I couldn’t stand being pegged so easily so my rebutted with, “Do you assume that just because I’m a woman, I like Sex in the City?” He was embarrassed. I could no longer let him bear the guilt of my peggableness, “..cause you’re right,” I admitted. In fact, I’ve seen every episode, 2 or 3 times. He was more than right; he saw into my stereotyped soul.
Seriously though! Is it that easy? Hell, I just used the phrase, “seriously though”. I’m like a walking bumper sticker. People know more about me than what I expect them too because I carry around my stereotype so well:
I like steak and potatoes. I want world peace but I solve my insecurities of not being able to affect change on a global level by buying one of those RED campaign t-shirts from the Gap. I shop at the Gap. I love shoes. I melt over puppies and kittens. I am not child savvy. I get my hair highlighted. I tell people I hate the Pottery Barn but secretly want to embellish my whole domestic existence with Brazilian maple, funky Crate & Barrel dishes and yet still want to consider myself a proletariat. (Although I’m pretty sure my income bracket will allow me to live as much of a proletariat lifestyle as I want.) Every time I go to a concert (with a positive message, lots of guitars and talented, cute musicians), I imagine that I’m the only girl in the room and that he can see me in the back of the auditorium and notices me and wants to make me his wife and when we get married all the google-eyed fans he could have slept with, would be only second class compared to me. I want to be the talented and famous musician. Romantic movies still mess with my perception between reality and fantasy. I brush my teeth.
Redeemably, there are things about me that do not fit the stereotype:
I have short nails. I am not child savvy. I hate taking cabs. I don’t give a crap if I shave my legs or not. I eat a lot of food many times during the course of one day… and I don’t throw it up. Purses are a foreign language to me. Foreign languages are a foreign language to me. I didn’t go to a prestigious in-state school like University of Illinois, Northwestern or high school. I listen to lyrics in songs and if they are stupid, I never listen to them again. I do listen to Tom Waits. I don’t work in PR. I have no rhythm and could not booty dance to save my life. I say things like “booty dance”.
Are any of you lovely readers, shamefully peggable? Please share…
