Embracing my inner priss

Hi. My name is Leta. I am ... a priss. (Hi, Leta!)

I admit it; I'm a priss. A girly-girl. I run and throw "like a girl." I'm not fond of getting dirty. I don't like eating watermelon from the rind because it's sticky. I refer to my undergarments by old-fashioned, faintly ridiculous terms like "underpinnings." I don't wear big, clunky boots unless I'm hiking; don't mind wearing pantihose; like make-up and perfume; and like to wear skirts. I lift my skirts when climbing stairs - even knee-length skirts - giving the odd impression that I believe that I am likely to trip over them. When I express shock, dismay, what-have-you, my hand flies to my throat and my fingers rest on my collarbones for the next couple of sentences.

I refer to my favorite beverage as "a nice, hot cup of tea." I read cozy murder mysteries. Unlike my mother and sister, I have never enjoyed fart jokes. I generally don't belch when people can hear me. I have no problem asking men to open jars after my best efforts have failed. I hate carrying heavy stuff. I give great back-rubs to both men and women. I'm very tactile and touch people pretty often as I talk to them. I call people "Sweetie," and "Honey" more often than a Baltimore diner waitress.

My condo may not relect it often enough, but I enjoy cleaning and I regard the tidiness (or lack thereof) of my living spaces as a reflection on me. I'm territorial about my kitchen and, although I can both use a power screwdriver and clean a kitchen, if I had to chose which one people thought I was incapable of doing, I'd chose the former. It bothers me that David's house is both cleaner and better decorated than mine.

I don't mind spiders and snakes, but I don't like stepping on bugs, especially big ones that make noise when stepped on. I believe in catch-and-release when it comes to tiny wildlife (like bugs). I coo over babies and small children and cute animals. I flirt with most living humans and I bat my eyelashes when I want something. I talk a lot and most of my conversation is, um, not deep.

Let's be clear, though. I don't decorate with angels or embroidered up-lifting twee sayings. "Floral" and "ruffled" aren't featured in either my decor or my wardrobe. I hate fussy clothing (like blouses) and love comfy clothes (like sweaters). My favorite clothes are from The Territory Ahead, Eddie Bauer, and Victoria's Secret. I think that the door should be held by the first person who gets to it, regardless of sex.

In any generation except the one of which I'm a member, none of this would be remarkable, but I grew up in one of the transitions between the girly-girl and the all-around-competant-woman. The guys I know really admire women who wear big boots and use power tools. Especially women who own their own power tools and bring them to strike. (I'd rather clean the dressing rooms than disassemble the set, frankly.) The day of the girly-girl has given way to the day of the grrrl. Like dial telephones and hand-written letters, I'm a quaint holdover, but not cool.

And - outside of wanting to be all things to all people - I'm okay with that. Finally.