Red Lipstick 4ever: A Love Letter to Women

To the woman who sat near me at that brunch, with your perfectly coiffed cloud of gray curls, wearing pearls at your throat, bright red lips and a pastel sweater set, I just wanted you to know that I see you.

I see how you are doing womanhood. How you are aging, but you take such good care of yourself, how you are polite and strong but open and warm. You are in command of you, and your life, and you exude happiness, the kind that lets me know it is good to be where you are. And to keep wearing red lipstick.

And to the lady checking out before me at BJ’s, with your denture cleaner and wine and books and oranges, I will come over to your house anytime. Because I like to read and drink wine and eat oranges, too. And I hope I am doing it at every age. I can see by your hunched shoulders you could give a $#%&. That makes me love you even more.

To the mother of a friend, who loved us and hosted us and wore a killer dress at her son’s wedding, thank you. For painting a picture for me on how to do that: give your son away.

To an editor who keeps learning and growing and encouraging, I see how generous you are with your life and your time, and I hope to pay it forward someday. And I will try a Reiki massage because of how you talk about them.

I have recently noticed how much I am paying attention to women who have come before me. They are role models by default, as they inhabit the title of mature woman, which I am on my way to inhabit. So I am taking notes.

Some are happy. Some are defeated. I try to figure out why. Most are quiet, like they have learned to only speak when it is absolutely neccessary. Some are entitled. Some have for one reason or another blended into life not wanting to stick out, and so they don’t. But I still see them. They are still representing women. I see their cross necklaces and canes and bras stuffed from their mastectomies. And they are beautiful to me. Their life is a chapter under the definition of woman, and I am trying to learn, to see how to do this well, how to become a woman, using every example.

I am also paying attention to younger girls, studying where I came from, where my girls will be soon. To you teenagers, with your impossibly smooth skin and flat stomaches, who wear braces and bright makeup and straitened hair and cut off jeans and tiny shirts from Abercrombie, I see you too. I see the way you glance at my brood through the corner of your eye at the mall. The way you laugh uncomfortably when my daughters molest your neon fingerprinted nails. I see how bright and lost and hopeful and sad you are. I see how you stick together, and am jealous of your free time with close girlfriends, the ability to lay at the beach on a Saturday or linger over pancakes at the diner. You are exactly where you should be.

Middle school girls: you might be my favorite. You are so happy. You giggle and smile and your eyes twinkle. And you love kids. You love to sit with them and brush their hair and play duck duck goose and revisit your own childhood for a little while, and then go back and do your algebra and social studies and Lacrosse. You are at a bridge in between childhood and adulthood, a poignant moment that always seems to rush by too fast, like newborn babies and spring. You are so open – life has been nurturing you up to now and you are so willing to nurture it right back.

When I was your age, I used to study the mothers of little children, so you may be looking at me too. I used to watch how they pushed their kids hair back from their eyes and caress their chins, how they negotiated constant conflict and swung their toddlers on their hips. How they used to bounce their little babies, and wipe chocolate from little hands, all while carrying on a conversation. They operated at a high frequency, since their mode of living was wired to young children, and I was in awe of the importance of their work as mothers. If you are looking at me, if you are paying attention, I hope to be sure to smile at you. To let you know I see you, too.

We never know the seeds we may plant. But we are a tribe. A sisterhood. We may not be conscious of it as we race through our days, but we are always painting a picture, holding a seat in the auditorium of what it means to be a woman. We have the power to make our tribe stronger. By our noticing each other, supporting each other, by our presence, by the nod of our head as we pass each other on the street or at the store. By taking the few minutes to chat with each other about good books and sick children, where to find the best shoes or the best oncologist. To let each other know that they are seen and heard and counted. Or just how sweet the oranges are right now while we’re in line at the checkout.

We can lift each other up in a glance, a gesture, a wink. Being a girl is hard, but it deserves to be celebrated. I am picking out my red lipstick ASAP. With such strong beautiful woman around me, I’ll wear it one day soon.