Years ago I read an Italian feminist who asked herself “why can’t we be ladies in life?” Her sense of accommodation was not only economic, but rather existential. Ladies without complexes, moral precariousness or anxious fuss. That they would not always feel that they lacked something to complete themselves, because they would have, embracing Machado’s verses, precise notions of balance and justice: “In life everything is a matter of measure, a little more, a little less.” They would not suffer from the imposter syndrome, nor the caregiver syndrome; and they would neither be too serious nor too sexy, nor slaves to justifications to appease the mood. Ladies oblivious to crucifixions for what was said (or what was not said), sovereign of their own bodies, who would not allow themselves to be occupied by that viscous sadness of bad love.
A true lady should have eliminated that guilt that chimes like a bell tower clock, accusing her of being a bad mother or a bad daughter, of accumulating visceral fat or stretch marks, of not being skilled in the kitchen or business. To always think that we could be better. Better than who? How many fools have we felt judged, punishing ourselves as stupid and doubting our judgment?
Today I look at my hands. They remain just as small; The nails were short, not as bitten as in my youth, when the anxiety to understand the world took over my fingers. The first spots appeared, announcing the entry into seniority. But, far from overwhelming me, I think that the time of lightness has arrived in which desire no longer bites or pierces reason. A temperate climate embraces our body, softer, but wiser. The narcissistic wound has left us several scars: how we suffer from not liking ourselves and not being liked enough. Also because of that fear of appearing vain, or ambitious, which slowed our steps. And how ridiculous it is now!
The way of telling who we are, of explaining ourselves with selected fragments (from what we read, eat or feel) outlines our identity although it also masks it. What we keep quiet is as important as what we reveal. And despite the numerous achievements of equality, many stories have still not been told. Let’s not be afraid to tell the Jury: “It’s never too late, ma’am.” Especially to be one.
