I want to back track for a moment.

I grew up on Chicago’s North Shore. Part of me feels that just saying these words: “I grew up on the Chicago’s North Shore” says everything. But if you didn’t grow up there, the words probably don’t carry much weight for you. When you hear “North Shore” you most likely do not experience a Pavlovian cringe response, immediately followed by the thought: I would like to raise my children there. This is something I can’t quite fully explain. Suffice it to say that Chicago’s North Shore is very safe in some ways and quite dangerous in others. Growing up in Deerfield was…difficult.

If you met me now, you would see a young woman with relatively clear skin, (most likely) no makeup and long wavy hair that looks…un-fussy. I would also probably be talking your ear off about food, either cooking it or eating it (both of which I LOVE).

I am very comfortable with this woman. I like my wavy hair, it makes me feel very feminine and it reminds me of my mother in her hippy days. I feel close to her when I watch myself brush my hair in the mirror. And surprisingly enough, mostly to myself, I love my appetite. I love how much I love food. I love not being afraid to touch raw chicken and I love smelling onions and garlic warming in the big wok that I use to cook EVERYTHING. I love that when I cook, I know I have touched everything you are eating with my own little hands.

But I didn’t always feel this way. You see, when I was a teenager living in Deerfield, straight hair was in. Very in. Girls never seemed to eat in front of anyone. And for a big group of Jewish ladies, who are—let’s face it—usually bringing it home in the T & A department, everyone was pretty damn skinny. But me? I just couldn’t quite keep up with all of the beauty rituals. I couldn’t get up early enough to put on makeup before school and I was never very proficient in the hair straightening department. And what I can identify now as a beautiful figure felt lumpy and fat to me.

Of course I acknowledge that I am engaging in a little revisionist history here. Growing up in Deerfield probably wasn’t nearly as horrible as I remember. Nevertheless, it felt horrible. So I abdicated. I gracefully extended my middle finger to all my imagined enemies and decided to take a break from self care.

After a long time of getting in your face about the crippling nature of your expectations surrounding my femininity, I began to slowly rebuild my relationship with myself. I realized that I actually love the texture of my hair. Why would anyone straighten beautiful waves like that!?! I realized that I love skirts and dresses and that I look damn good in them. I realized that it is okay to let the world see that I care for myself and actually find myself to be quite attractive. And you know what the weird thing is? I have more friends now than I ever did before. Apparently it is easier to get along with someone who isn’t always hiding behind greasy hair and a bad attitude.

I want to make it clear now that I leave room in my heart for all kinds of women. I would never ask any woman to express her femininity and womanhood, or even her masculinity, in one specific way. I am only saying that I got sick of pretending I didn't care about seeing myself as a beautiful, soft, feminine person.

So I am coming out of the closet. I am a woman. A woman who loves great clothes and my husband-to-be. A woman who loves wearing aprons in the kitchen. A woman who can, in the very same conversation, discuss (to a certain degree) the finer points of Freudian psychoanalytic theory and direct you to the absolute best makeup artist in Chicago.