The Virgin Diaries
by YBLalat

Part Two: No Longer a Girl, Not Yet a Woman

Last night’s dream was a bit on the bizarre side. It hinted me things that I don’t understand: Valentine cards, tearful eyes, mismatched dresses, empty Ben & Jerry ice-cream containers and a princess’ wedding. Was it the orange cake? Did I bake it wrong?

The morning was a bit colder than usual, or probably it was just me waking up to that dream. My hair was all over the place, on the pillow, and under the blanket. Walking to the bathroom was a great, taxing chore. The lights blinded me as I turned them on – my eyelids retracted immediately to the abrupt change of brightness. I had to reach far and wide for my toothbrush, and with my eyes closed, the task was seemingly impossible. The toothpaste was slimming down to its last few gooey drops, and the toothbrush’s head was already like a Mohawk punk hairdo. But it was only in the middle of the month!

Oh great, I slept with my last night’s clothes on. Damn it. I had everything on before jumping onto bed, hadn’t I? The tight corduroy jeans, and the wire-framed bra, and the silk thermal wear? Oh, just what I needed to start the day – a sagging, flat butt and a pair of growth-oppressed B-cups. I knew it and I knew it even then that these super low-cut jeans were going to ruin my life sooner or later. So much for wanting to feel extra sexy while in class.

But then, no one actually noticed anything different about me in class. None of the boys took heed or anything, which was expected, of course. I mean, come on, only I know whether or not I am walking across the lecture hall floor a particular day wearing nothing inside my pants but a bright red G-string-y panty or a butt-cleavage-exposing, low-cut jeans. No one would notice anything even slightly different about that, correct? Not even the other girls, yeah? Which is exactly why I like doing that – there is this sly feeling deep inside you, something very kinky, and playful, and teasing, but then no one knows that you are actually feeling like that. Get it? You just keep on walking, and going through your day just like any other typical day, but all day long, you just keep that naughty, dirty little secret all to yourself. Oh, I am turning red already!

In fact, sometimes I’d wished that someone would actually catch me doing it. But then…no, no, that would be morally wrong – possibly a great sin – but okay, so what? I got caught, big deal! I got caught for wearing something which is a big ‘taboo’ for a nice, innocent girl like me to wear. But nobody saw it, and only I knew about it. But still…okay, okay, it’s wrong. But…well, until I actually get caught, there is nothing wrong about it, right? Isn’t sin so tantalizing?

Once at school, I was asked, “Is there something wrong?” by some guy classmate because I was grinning and smiling and chuckling and blushing excessively that day – for no “apparent” or “obvious” reasons. That was the only time, the only single time ever, that I was nearly, nearly caught red-handed. If only he knew what he was getting himself into!

But that was also the last time that any guy, may it be from my classes, or the seminars that I enrolled in, or my U workplace, or my tutoring job, noticed anything about me. Even with the male friends and classmates that I have, I am often not that much the center of their world. They were never awkward with the swearing, burping or saying something sexually derogatory when I was around. They always treated me like a normal friend, and not like a lady, which is okay at times, but then sometimes you just long for something beyond that. Something that makes you feel appreciated and special and desired. Something that makes you say with a smile, “Thank you God I am girl”.

I guess I am not that much of a “babe” or a “hunk-magnet” like some other girls I know. Having no one to look at you more than just a close friend or a good companion is indeed at times very sad and depressing. The state of that often makes you feel lonely and unlucky. Yes, they are all very lucky to be born with such magnitude of beauty: those long and beautiful legs, the perfect skin – smooth, clear and fair, that lanky, feminine arms and body curves that curve at the right places. Then, if you look at me, all I have to flaunt at the singles market are these long, fat, dangling eyelashes and my high-pitch, squeaky, childish voice. And even those two are often taken into context by guys and girls as objects of ridicule and humor.

Yes, yes, I know that I don’t have the sexiest taste in modern-day fashion or the most seductive smile or a bulimic ideal figure or the perkiest, biggest pair of yahoos or the daydream-inducing face of a princess. And I also know that I have the shortest pair of legs and the weirdest manner of laughter and that I wear color-disoriented dresses and keep a whole closet full of Grandma’s styles and colors of tudung. And I also know that other girls and boys know about this and always make fun of it behind my back or by the way they stare and giggle – but frankly I don’t care. I don’t feel the slightest pain or hurt or jealousy or animosity.

The reason is simple: I am not like them – I am unique, and they know that.

As of this moment, I am not in the rush to grow up and become a woman, to get myself the ideal man, the mythical Mr. Perfect, or to start fearing the possibility of having to spend the next ten years of my adult life alone and cold and regretful if I don’t act now. I don’t believe that once my age hits the digit two and zero, my life needs to be redirected to fit the hassles and coarse pathways of a new destination, a new paradigm. I don’t believe that I have paint myself a mask to impress the world, or to get myself noticed. I don’t believe that love should be based on perfection and beauty and charm. I don’t believe that happiness is so cheap and shallow and insincere and that its pursuit is as simple.

However, I do believe that the option is mine and mine alone and that is what make me so special and unique. Nobody can influence me into choosing something that I am not prepared for, that I am not willing to sacrifice my freedom for. To me, the issue of finding that true and right person is like waiting for a bus in the morning. You get up early at dawn and prepare yourself for the journey: you bathe, you dress up, and you put on your one-eyed colored contact lens. You already know the time and the venue of the pick-up and with patience and calmness; you wait for it to come. Sometimes it will arrive on time, but most often, it will arrive later than promised – but never before time.

This is typical of guys, right? Being never on time? Even if you miss the first bus, there is always the next bus – but of course, you have to wait longer for that one. You could also get into any other bus that travels along the same route, but since you know where your destination is and the path that the bus will take, you could always get off from the bus and wait some more for the next one. Take your time, grow old waiting for a bus if you have to, but remember that there will always be a perfect bus for you – the only thing you need are time and patience. (And at the age of twenty, I have a lot of both!) And even if, finally, the perfect bus has stopped so conveniently in front of you, it is still your choice and yours alone whether to get onto it or not. Don’t let the buses chose you; you chose your bus, simply because you have the money to pay for the fare.

And that same morning, I missed the bus to my ME class for the third time this week.

Moral of the story: A bus fare is not cheap, ladies, and the ride is often a bumpy one.