one woman show x

Originally published 19th October 2023

*Author’s note - The reader might find it useful to know that I identify as a heterosexual female. This blog is written from personal experience, though I do hope the reader will find relation by applying the pronouns and sexual identities with which they relate and identify with.

She/her. he/him. they/them.

Understandably, pronouns have held a spotlight in recent years and I would like to invite you to turn that same lens ever so slightly with me towards the concept of girl-lady-woman. boy-guy-man.

A good friend mirrored back a comment I had made recently about dating “boys.” (She wasn’t having it. Any of it. And I love her for it.) She reminded me that as women in our 30s and 40s, we do not date “boys” and the act of even labeling them as such is problematic on so many different levels.

Curious as to why I do refer to them as “boys” or “guys,” though rarely “men,” I asked the question and saw the shadow side of myself come to the door.

Yes… that shadow side.

I’ll be honest. I don’t know her too well. Why? Because I’ve been conditioned by society to believe shadows are unpleasant and unwelcome.

It hasn’t been until recent years when I’ve realized how fascinating shadows are. Just think of it, some of the most incredible and beautiful entities such as babies and flowers and stars are created from the very depths of darkness. And also, shadows are a necessity for balance. And by god, how thankful we should sometimes be for those shadowed bodies who carry that weight in order to balance out the almighty praised light and all which is associated with it in our society.

Doesn’t pleasure and pain come from the very same place? Isn’t it only our minds which have been taught that one is good and one is bad, when in fact, they are one and the same?

However, my shadow self? (she takes a deep breath) Oh no, no, no. No.

She’s not that fascinating. She doesn’t feel good. She’s insecure. She’s lost. She’s hidden her trauma so deep it’s on a cellular level. She doesn’t like discomfort or isolation or unknowing.

I’ve come so far as to acknowledge she’s there, which I admit, is a starting place. But to accept her? Or furthermore, to love her?

You ask too much.

Impulsively, I want to change her. I don’t like those sides of myself which are lost and insecure. But I see she’s not going away. In fact, she’s only knocking at my door more and more. I can hear her on the other side, and sometimes she barges in unexpectedly and I see this side of myself that I don’t know and I don’t understand and that scares me.

Who is this person? And why is she suddenly angry all the time because she can’t control herself and doesn’t understand what’s going on?

And yet, here we are.

She needs to come in. She’s been out there for way too long. Neglected. She needs shelter. She needs support. She needs acknowledgment and love. And I’m realizing that in order for myself to live in happiness and in light, I must bring her in and share the space. It’s part of the deal.

So, to come back to this point I wanted to make… turns out my shadow self is my woman. And I laugh with irony wondering how that can even be since I’ve dreamt my entire life of “becoming her,” having envisioned her as pure light and laughter and optimism. Full of charisma and imagination.

She’s someone who reads Hemmingway on a train across the European countryside. She’s someone who puts fresh fruits and flowers into her straw market bag on a Sunday. She’s someone who goes out on a date with a man and doesn’t have to try to impress him because simply being herself is intoxicating and impressive enough. She embodies seduction and femme fatale and je ne sais quoi. (for some reason I’ve always held the French woman to be the pinnacle of womanhood.)

Effortless. Unapologetic. Hypnotizing.

And what of her male equivalent?

I remember being 22 and single with no real significant relationships thus far in my life. My local theater was playing a “Cary Grant Birthday Weekend” while showing his most popular films and I had grown up knowing of Cary Grant, though had never actually watched any of his movies. So I went to see An Affair to Remember, and you could tell that the audience were pure romantics… both in the traditional sense as well as for the cinema. And as I sat in that theater, I could feel everyone’s emotions unfold throughout the film. The desire. The longing. That energy, it was electric. Like experiencing snowfall for the first time.

And there’s this scene where Deborah Kerr and Cary Grant are walking down steps on the balcony of a cruise ship, and you can only see their feet start to come down until suddenly hers stops. Then his stops. And he turns around, and climbs back up the stairs. And although you can’t see it, you know it. You know that he kisses her.

My heart exploded. And I felt something I couldn’t see. But it was there.

And my 22-year-old self made a deal right there in that theater. She made a deal with another version of me, one whom I have yet to meet. But she knew she wanted to experience what it would feel like to be a woman and fall in love with a man. And to me, Cary Grant at the age of 53, was a man. So sitting in that theater, I somehow knew this meant it was going to be a long journey ahead to find someone I felt comfortable enough to call my partner.

And since then, they’ve all been boys to me. Even the 39-year-olds.

And I’m now realizing that maybe that’s not true at all. Maybe I’ve just remained a girl this entire time, and perhaps I’ve done both them and myself a disservice by stubbornly holding onto this 1957 transatlantic idea of what it must feel like to become a woman and fall in love with a man.

In my last entry I referred to myself, to my life, as a “one woman show.” But I think a more accurate description of that might be the “one girl show.” Okay, I’ll give myself credit for the “one lady show” too.

But the “one woman show?” More like “one woman preview” as I’ve only caught glimpses of her.

Sometimes in a conversation on a date.

Sometimes in a shade of red nails or red lips.

Sometimes naked and feeling the sensation of clean, cool sheets brushed against my skin as I slip into bed.

Sometimes in a Drake song.

Sometimes in a Jo Malone scent.

Sometimes. Sometimes.

But mainly, she’s kept in the shadows. And I think it’s because I’m scared of her. Because I’m afraid of growing up and I’m afraid of completely losing grip on play and naivety since that’s where life feels…. good. Safe. Where it feels innocent and harmless. Where you don’t have to hold yourself accountable.

And I’m scared of imposter syndrome because I don’t have the full wardrobe yet. I don’t have the bank account yet. I don’t have the repertoire of playbills and first editions and originals adorning my selves and the walls just yet.

And it sounds so silly, but I think of these teen popstars at the age of 18 singing about becoming a woman, and my 35-year-old self just wants to crawl into her shell with shame. How can 18-year-olds confidently pioneer their way into the world of womanhood when I’m frozen with fear at the thought of seducing a man with my “womanly ways?”

I’m sure there’s a whole new playground in the realm of womanhood. One which is probably a hell of a lot more fun than the playground my girlish self is refusing to leave even though the other kids have gone and it’s now getting dark.

So why am I holding back? Why?

Because by becoming a woman, I’ll have to not only face my shadows but become the shadows too. And although I’m exhausted and in desperate need of hibernation and rest, I don’t want to go to the dark corner. Because going to the dark corner means doing the work, and not the fun kind. The unlearning. The learning. The somatic healing.

But what if the dark corner was also the cocoon? A place of acceptance. Forgiveness. Love. Transformation.

And so, this is not the beginning of becoming her because I started that journey long ago. I’ve read the Kerouacs. I’ve seen the Truffauts and the Godards.

This is the beginning of accepting her. Of accepting that though I might not have all the things, I have enough.

It’s accepting that I won’t lose a sense of play, it will just evolve.

It’s accepting that I need her. I need the shadows. Because for far too long I’ve tipped the scales in one direction and now it’s so weighed down the alarm bells are going off and ironically I need to lighten the load by letting the dark on board.

So I’ll end on a personal note. I have a date this weekend. I’ve met him a few times, meaning he’s met me a few times. But I wonder if this weekend I’ll allow him to meet her.

I wonder, more importantly, if I’ll allow myself to meet her. To greet her. Welcome her. Be her. Embody her. Love her.

And it feels unnerving, not knowing who is going to show up. And yet a Rumi poem, The Guest House, comes to mind in this very moment, which I would like to share with you as I sit here and welcome her in.

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

x Lindsay