Pink

Am I not supposed to like pink?

As a modern, 30-something woman, I am troubled by the world's translation of me. Am I an academic? Am I a party-girl? A corporate bitch? Or could I be a jock? I find it difficult to define myself because I embrace diversity and have always sought to colour myself with a varied hue of interests. 

In the post-women's lib era, I am encouraged to seek higher education, ambitiously pursue my career and participate in sport, but can I bake a cupcake without being mocked? I can't help but feel the steely eye of judgment when I wear frilly frocks and pink lip gloss at a feminist poetry slam (though my short hair gives me some fem cred in these circles). Nonetheless, I will not resign myself to uniform and have always defended my love of clothing. What I wear is not a comprehensive reflection of all that inspires me.

As we prepare for the Royal wedding, I realized that it's become uncool to be romantic. Dreams of Mr. Right, wishes for a happily ever-after and hopes to one day find romance are pretty much considered doe-eyed and unevolved. It's much cooler to say you shun the idea of romance, don't believe in marriage and strike up a conversation about the sexual quirks of your last partner. Is there anything wrong with that? No. 

So what's my problem? Simply this: while we move beyond old world social constructs that depicted women as antiquated caricatures, let's be careful not to create an entirely new set of restricting definitions that once again force women into mutually exclusive groups. Daring as they may be, confining us gals to narrow definitions has never and will never work.