It’s funny. Yesterday, I was all wishing I lived during the
Victorian period when women were judged based on their paintings, instrument
playing, singing, etc. Because I’m good at those things, and if I’m going to be
judged based on my performance on certain criteria, it might as well be criteria
that I’m naturally good at. None of this money-making, entrepreneurship,
political business that I feel forced into these days, but don’t feel a natural at.
I could wear fancy dresses and take many a “turn about the room” with my head
held high with ease.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m definitely a Feminist. I believe in
equal rights for women and men. I believe that each gender has the right to
choose to follow their gifts whatever they may be. But let’s face it. I’d
probably be pretty popular back in the day. I’d have many, many suitors. It
just seems ideal that I would have been born in that period of time. At least I
thought that until I remembered my adventure the day before…
I was camping with my family and decided to take one of my
parents’ kayaks out on the lake. I thought it would be a little chilly but I
didn’t want to get my pants wet. So I changed into my swim suit bottoms and
wore a black t-shirt with a very oversized sweatshirt over top of that, and I
took to the water.
The water was fairly calm that morning as there were only a few
motor boats speeding through yet. That made it easy to direct the kayak where I
wanted it to go. My parents’ kayak had leg pedals like a bike which was pretty
nifty. So I switched back and forth between using the leg pedals and rowing
with the double-sided oar. It was much needed quiet alone time in nature. The
sound of the waves and the slight rocking in the water was calming to my
anxious spirit.
And then I felt the heat of the sun start to seep through my
sweatshirt, so that came off. I continued to row past the houses up on the hill
to my right, as a worry crease crept to my forehead. I had no more layers to
take off but my one and only t-shirt. And it was black. And it just kept
getting hotter. What was I to do? I kept paddling.
I paddled until I was far enough between houses and boats
that I hoped no one could see me. Then I took a quick look all around me and
whipped off my t-shirt, dunked it in the water and put it back on. That did nothing
but make me incredibly uncomfortable, as if the air was sticky and humid. So I
continued to paddle.
Finally I could take it no more. I asked myself if God would
care if I took off my shirt. I had no idea. I mean, God gave me my breasts. And
there was no one close by that I could see. Someone would either have to be
hiding or own binoculars to see me. Which, of course, was a possibility, but…
And off came the shirt. Just me in my bikini bottoms and
flip flops oaring my way on the lake. At first I was nervous. So nervous
that I decided to take the kayak to shore and find a place to sit where I felt
it would be even less likely that someone would see me. I pulled the boat up
the very small section of sand I could find and stepped out. My feet sunk in
the sand and I panicked a bit as it was difficult to pull my foot back out. It
appeared there was a bunch of tan colored clay underneath a few inches of sand.
I stumbled to rockier ground and pulled the kayak further up the sand.
My little shore was still out in the open. A boat could wiz
by at any moment and see me, but I took my chances and sat down on the rocks. I
felt very pleased with myself. Ecstatic. Daring. A rebel. What I was doing was definitely
illegal. No public bearing of the breasts is the law of the land in Washington
State. I cared not, for the feeling of the sun on my chest, which had never in
my life seen the light of day, and the breeze drying my sweat both just felt so heavenly that I just couldn’t handle it! I mean, how is it that men are really just allowed to
whip off their shirt whenever they’re hot like I was doing? Until then, I didn’t
fully realize what I was missing out on. But now I do. I laughed out loud to
myself, partially in nervousness, but mostly in glee.
I saw a boat approaching in the distance and jumped to my
feet. I walked a little closer to the kayak in case of an emergency. I waited
it out as I grabbed a stick and knocked down spider webs that were all over a
big toppled down remains of a tree among many other logs next to the kayak. The
boat thankfully stayed on the other side of the water and I continued to walk
around with the walkie talkie my mom had handed me before I set out.
And then I felt something rumble within my bowls. Oh, $#!+…I
mean poop. So what I did next was daring. It was just a little gross. Okay,
maybe a little bit more than gross. It was definitely not “proper” or “lady-like”.
It was something I had never done before and I was curious to experiment. I had
never pooped squatting in the water before. So I did. I did my business,
squatting fully nude on the banks of Lake Roosevelt. It was a big area. It wasn’t
likely anyone would come. There was nowhere to park their boat. They would have
to have a kayak or something...
I was thankful for the natural bidet (I’ve never really used
a bidet before), and I stood up to examine my poop which had sunk to the sandy
earthen floor. It was the color of the clay I had stepped in previously. No one would
know the difference...if they ever discovered it. I hoped they wouldn’t. I'm sure they did too. I
covered my poop with sand with my foot like a cat. Look at me being a wild
beast.
I walked away from the area laughing out loud. I was just
having so much fun. Slightly scandalized at myself for doing things like this kinda
out in the open-like. Risky business, this was. But it had to be done.
I grabbed the walkie talkie I had set down against the cliff
wall and walked back to the kayak. I sat back down in the kayak and paddled
around back and forth in a small area, afraid to push around the corner for
fear there would be a boat there or something. Oh I could have sat in that
kayak forever. The smile would not leave my face and I felt freer than ever
with my shirt off. I checked my white chest and saw no redness or tan, only a
massive tan line. Typical of my skin. It took a lot for the sun to make an
impression. But I mean, this skin on my chest had NEVER seen the sun. Must’ve been my Cuban
blood preparing me for warm temperatures.
Finally, my mom called me on the walkie talkie and told me
they were about ready to pack up camp. So I headed on back, putting my shirt
back on just as two boats started speeding in my direction in the distance.
Perfect timing.
Honestly, my adventure that morning was the best adventure I’ve
had in a while. And remembering that adventure while fantasizing about being an
elegant Victorian lady, I realized that just wasn’t possible. I got far too
much satisfaction from having adventures, at doing manual labor for fun like
kayaking, at doing rebellious things like pooping in nature and tearing off my
shirt, at being spontaneous and expressive in general. No, Victorian England
would not do well for me as that one rebel part of my nature would just not allow
it to. I’d be hanged for arguing with all the men around me who tried to boss
me around and make me their property. My many challenging opinions would make
me far too outspoken and undesirable. Submission for the sake of traditional rules?
Etiquette? Ha! I struggled with that all of my life.
So what does that means in terms of what I should be doing
with my life? If adventure just makes me high and leaves me ecstatic and
self-satisfied, what should I do with my life? There aren’t a lot of good,
honorable jobs that I can think of that involve stripping my shirt off. This is
why I still don’t have a career path. It’s too dangerous.
And to conclude, I have to say that though I did do things
that even these days are not considered acceptable or legal, and could have
landed me in jail or fined a bunch of money, I’m so glad that these days I could
even go out on a kayak without an escort. That I could even kayak at all. I’m
glad for the freedom I’m given now in comparison to the restrictions that were
in Victorian times. Even if people think I’m a freak, at least I’m free to be a
freak.
So I guess that’s it. I’m fine with my freakery. Thank you Feminism.
We’ve come a long way.
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