I used to bristle when people called me a “girl” - ever since I got to my small liberal arts college and at the tender age of 18 we were told we had the right to be called “women” now. We were also told that the usage of “men” as a general term covering both genders, was no longer acceptable. So, we weren’t Freshmen we were “First Year Students” and it was the “Women’s Soccer Team” I played on, because we certainly were NOT Girls any longer. (Side note: given how ideas of gender and identity have evolved since then, I wonder what “they” tell “them” now?)
In any case, now that I am “old” I say “sure, please call me a girl”! while the lines on my face tell another story. I’m embracing the term again and it does seem like it got some renewed cultural currency somewhere along the way, with publication of popular books turned movies (think Gone Girl, The Girl with all the Gifts, Girl on the Train etc.). To me the word no longer carries any of the weight it once did, and I know the desire to avoid aging, or appearance of aging, is just perpetuating the cult of eternal youth, with its ridiculous and unobtainable standards, especially for women. But there it is.
The other significance of this blog post title is a book with similar name that I remember so fondly, a lesser known YA work by famous author Beverly Cleary: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/395464.The_Luckiest_Girl I guess I’m going to have to reread the book - I don’t remember precisely why the protagonist was the luckiest girl, but I remember when she temporarily relocated to sunny, mystical CA from rainy, boring Oregon she was amazed by creeks that ran dry, and impressed by boys who came to class with tired eyes and dark streaks on their noses from the smudging they did in early hours to save orange groves during a cold snap. It must have been because everything was so new and exciting and interesting and fun. It may also have been the way the story ended for her (spoiler alert!), with her getting the guy, but not the one she thought she wanted, the one she could truly love, who was her best friend. Awwwwwwwwwww 😍
I think I loved this book as a young person also because it reminded me of my mother - she grew up in Portland, OR just like Cleary and the book took place in the 50s, when my Mom grew up also. The book is featured in an interesting post on the “Lost Classics of Teen Lit” which mentions the other YA book I remember so well from Cleary, called Fifteen. I also find it an interesting coincidence the protagonist is named Shelley, which is a nickname I abhorred and avoided successfully all my life; only my Dad got away with teasingly calling me that from time to time.
In any case, I may not remember clearly why Shelley was the luckiest girl, but I know why I am. I used to say when my husband and I first quit our jobs, sold everything, and moved down to Florida “I just want to know how my story ends” - a fear-based wondering I no longer have. Because I’m no longer anxious about the future and I don’t dwell any longer on my roads not taken, such as the literature professor or author of books I could have been. Nights are calm and peaceful - I sleep pretty well - days are technicolor freedom - for over 6 years now I’ve had this release from a kind of prison. I’ve regained my health, discovering new ways to use this one imperfect body I have. I’ve taken responsibility for my past, for my actions, my feelings, my relationships. Now I truly do look forward to a future that can be anything I want it to be.
And when I claim to be the luckiest girl in the world, I have so much gratitude. It’s not that I put myself above anybody else, it’s just that I’m truly in awe of my life now, and I can’t really take the credit, so hopefully this is not perceived as all egotism and arrogance. It’s just that I can’t even really explain it to this day, especially when it could have so easily gone the other way. So, if life is a game we play only against our former selves, I feel as if I’ve always already won, so long as I don’t take any of it for granted.
