There is a guy in me, living inside. A guy who takes the lead and rules the show sometimes, who doesn’t listen to anyone except himself. It’s that guy who gets up from his sleep during the soccer games, makes me roar, wants to climb up the mountains, bleeds and gets dirty, and breathes after his adventures and walks on. Who makes me put on my masculine boots, baggy carpenter pants, my hard hat on and walks me around the construction site with dozens of construction workers and who turns me into their best friend. It’s him again who brings me to a bar to have a drink with people somehow foreign to me, gets me tipsy and drives me home safe. That same guy is responsible for me to think and say that pink is very girlie.
He wants to empower the woman in me, fights with her time to time. The woman in me awakens at the end of the games, willing to see my favorite player jerseyless. This woman shows her face and grace at business meetings, with a touch of make-up, stockings and a dress. The guy wants me in a suit and a white shirt, but also accompanies her there in me. He is shut down unless she needs to get tough with others and he shows himself as my thrown sketch-pen or as a mug harshly put back on the table. She shows up when I am ordering coffee, does her trick without me even realizing it, gets free stamps on my Nero card under the counter from the cashier guy.
It’s that very same guy who doesn’t let me fall in love with men. That’s why the woman in me lives love with places, objects, in between the lyrics of a song or with a paragraph in a book. He gives me craves to watch Hangover, wants me to be one of them while the woman desires Bradley Cooper madly. The woman wants candlelights and dinner; the guy just wants dinner-a juicy burger with French fries and a beer on the side. She wants to smell flowers and hear seducing compliments when sipping her wine, but he is totally happy with just the taste of the wine. She wants her car washed and gas tank full in her car, he whispers in my ear telling me to do it all by myself. He keeps a helmet in the trunk of the same car while she needs her mini-dress for an emergency night-out. He wants his son to be an F1 pilot, where the woman in me imagines her son exactly looking like her husband and be proud. He is the simple in me while the woman questions, stirs and blends, and turns me into a mess-a hot mess- and disturbs.
Because of this guy living in me, I don’t make any sense to the rest of my gender sometimes. The woman in me wants to be caressed time-to-time, cry maybe in certain situations. The guy is so strong and likes to rule her, I scream instead as he wants. The guy in me wants my hair pulled back, headboard cracked and random bruises. The guy in me makes me go running when it’s pouring down outside, or go kick the trainers ass in a kick-box class while the girl yearns for her yoga class, calms me down, followed by a girlie chat and a piece of desert. The woman fights with the guy because she feels she neither is heard nor understood-what a surprise! The guy in me wants to live my life limitless, make it priceless, tasteful, on the edge passionately without thinking, by just doing, by just how he feels in that specific moment. The woman wants balance, calmness, tender and clarity. Her face being recognized, touched. It is nothing like my two rising signs’, Aries and Pisces’s fight. This is a different fight, a different contradiction, challenge in me. While they argue and until one wins, I live by the guy, because he is my left side. Living the way he wants me to, with a rush of feelings, but feelingless. He keeps me on the right side of wrong. Just the way the heat, the excitement and the disappointment of the moment tell me to, without boundaries, until they figure it out for me.
