Years ago I read an Italian feminist who asked herself "why can't we be in life as ladies?". His sense of accommodation was not only economic, but rather existential. Ladies without complexes, moral insecurities or anxious cockroaches. That they would not always feel that they lacked something to complete themselves, since they would have, embracing Machado's verses, precise notions of balance and justice: "En la vida todo es cuistão de medida, un poco más, algo menos". Nor would they suffer from the syndrome of the impostor, or that of the caretaker; and they would not be very serious or very sexy, nor slaves to justifications to calm the spirit. Ladies oblivious to crucifixions for what they have said (or not said), sovereigns of their own bodies, who would not allow themselves to be occupied by that viscous sadness of bad love.
A real lady should have eliminated that guilt that rings like a clock in a bell tower, 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 in business. Of always thinking that we could be better. Better than who? How many baboons have we felt judged, castigating ourselves as stupid and doubting our judgement?
Today I look at my hands. They remain just as small; short nails, not as bitten as in my youth, when the anxiety to understand the world gnawed at my fingers. The first spots have appeared, announcing the entry into the age of experience. But, far from being disconcerted, I think that the time of levity has come when desire no longer bites or pierces reason. A temperate climate embraces our body, softer, but wiser. The narcissistic wound has left us with several scars: how we suffered from being disliked and not liked enough. Also because of that fear of seeming vain, or ambitious, which slowed our steps. And how ridiculous she looks now!
The way we narrate who we are, to explain ourselves with selected excerpts (from what we read, what we eat or hear) outlines our identity, even though it also masks it. What we keep quiet about is as important as what we reveal. And despite the many conquests of equality, many stories have yet to be told. Let's not be afraid to paraphrase Jurado: "It's never too late, lady". Especially to be.
