Men, women and everyone in between

Men, men, men.

My most favorite writers are men, favorite painters, favorite directors, philosophers, musicians, comedians, mathematicians, entrepreneurs. When I imagine The Most Epic House Party of All Time, the guest list is dominated by men. The whole room is probably filled with smoke, I can hardly see who’s who and it may not even matter. There’s Camus and Kant debating. Franz Kafka showed up but went home, overwhelmed by the number of attendees and ennui. Oscar Wilde is the life of the party, telling fabulously decadent anecdotes (I think Lorca may have a crush on him). There’s Hemingway of course - oh, let’s hope he doesn’t start a fight with poor Scottie Fitzgerald standing near the window staring at something yellow (wow, that’s a lot of hair gel, Scott). Allan Poe is petting the raven in a cage while casually chatting with Sylvia Plath. Kubrick and Cobain, Kahlo and Lennon, Gauss and Jobs, van Gogh and Warhol.

As you can see, mostly men. I am not complaining: I love men, especially Hopkins men with their flawless style (hoodies anyone?) and clueless smiles. Endearingly obvious, but very school smart.

“Hopkins guys and their sweet, shy JHU confessions about girls who brighten their routine,” “Hopkins guys and their new or old beards (there is constantly something going on with their facial hair),” “Hopkins guys and their games of Pokemon or Dota,” “Hopkins guys and Oh-Man-I-Was-So-Gone-Last-Night,” “Hopkins guys and misused winky faces,” - I could be the next Joan Rowling!

Then, of course, there are the in-betweens. Dazed and confused and long given up on definitions, they make me question the realness of the whole gender concept. We messed up from the very beginning, I think, whether or not you can have offspring with the object affection is irrelevant. We don’t owe an easy way out to the society. Why be approachable, if you can be interesting? Aren’t we all the same? To quote N. Fielding, “Is it a man? Is it a woman? I’m not sure I mind.”  But now I am sitting on the floor at my sorority meeting (hey, no stereotyping!) that is long enough for my thoughts to go astray and it’s all about…well, girls.

Girls. Oh my, girls. While my sexual orientation is pretty traditional, girls, bro, ahh, girls. Little clogs of mascara between their lashes with super extra volume, length, the blackest black of all blacks. So aware of trends: Spring/Summer 2014, metallic colors, Paris Fashion Week, floral prints (groundbreaking). Girls with their cute purple organizers with study sessions planned out, girls who don’t analyze text messages from admirers because they know exactly what they mean, girls with braids, ombre hair, and slightly uneven eyeliner wings. Girls who know what goes with what, but also know exactly when it doesn’t matter. My Hopkins girls, the brunettes, mainly, with a stingy fear of not getting what’s on the agenda at the moment and dreams of getting whatever will feel like happiness and fulfillment.

“Raise your hand if you plan to have a family of your own sometime in the future,” said a professor once, probably to satisfy his own curiosity. Many more guys than girls raised their hands. We are shouting at the world that we are not the typical girl, a collective portrait made of movie characters and life from long ago. We’re not going to trap you in a promise, in a deal, in motherly tenderness. Open relationship? Sure. Let’s go dancing! Let’s go Dutch. Let’s go. Let go.

We weed out the toxic friends, we normalize our sleep schedules. We fret about which foods are “bad for you,” we apologize for our opinions and ideas. We orchestrate our social media presence and keep alive more relationships than we want. Networking gets you everywhere, doesn’t it? Women’s art is closer to Earth, exhumes emotions with cutting edges or stories about ethereal or eternal youth. All these men, we used to worry about them too much, now we worry too little. I love girls, with their Pinterest boards and bits of abstract gossip, just because it’s funny. I love their clicking heels and perfume-drenched scarves, their silly insecurities and inebriated compliments. I love the “other girls,” too. Ex-boyfriends’ new girls, potential boyfriends’ potential ex-girlfriends, girls who flirt with my boyfriends…