I’m the kind of girl who starts 80% of her sentences with the word “sorry.” It’s problematic, I know, but there’s one thing I’ll never apologize for — and that’s being a girly feminist. Because, despite an enduring belief, loving and owning my femininity in all it’s cotton-candy pink glory doesn’t make me a bad feminist.
I like having my nails done; it makes me feel in control and put-together, and it doesn’t make it any harder for to me to believe in the complete equality of the sexes.
I like wearing makeup and nice outfits: a cute dress makes me feel confident, and doesn’t in any way impede me from calling my congresswomen and telling them I oppose the six-week abortion ban.
I love my flower-printed backpack, my sparkly agenda, and my colorful gel pens. They remind me how lucky I am to be receiving a higher education when 66% of the world’s adult illiterate population are women.
I love my bath bombs, face scrubs, and fancy-smelling soaps; they help me relax after a long day of working for 79 cents on the dollar of a man’s salary.
I love my yoga pants and “athleisure” outfits — they keep me comfy as I take to the streets to defend my rights.
I love a nice, warm cup of tea, which helps my voice recover after a long day of yelling back to cat-callers.
I love the parts of me because I’ve learned to love the whole: I’ve learned to love the rough, jagged edges, my dark sense of humor and my complete ineptness at anything athletic. I love the beliefs that center who I am — my faith in God, my desire to make the world better, and my quest to create equality in any place I can. I’ve learned through patient study to love every part of who I am, even and especially the girly parts.