She paused, looking up at the ceiling, wondering when he would call again.
She wondered what she had done wrong.
Overanalyzed everything she had ever said, done, or touched.
She was left confused.
Not because he didn’t choose her, but because he did.
But now, after being chosen, she had to face the reality of all the performances she had put on for this so-called “honor.”
It started on their first date.
Her last boyfriend had told her she didn’t have to be so loud all the time.
So with him, she wasn’t loud at all.
She made sure to look him in the eyes as he talked and gave his hand a gentle touch to let him know she was present.
Waited for him to open every door.
She said thank you after every date.
Waited three months before inviting him into her home.
She even changed the way she laughed.
You know, ’cause she didn’t want to be too loud.
She was a party girl. So she kept that a secret from him.
She told him she was going to dinner with the girls.
Even though she knew three clubs would quickly follow the dinner reservation.
She only discussed her education and profession with him.
Never her dreams and aspirations.
So as she lay looking up at the ceiling, wondering when he would call again,
she realized she had performed her way into a role she never actually wanted.
To be a good girl.
The girl constantly chosen.
The one picked.
Just to ultimately feel empty.
She wondered, “When did I become so consumed with being chosen by men that I neglected choosing me?”
To be a good girl.
It is to be everything for everyone while suppressing who you actually want to be.
Maybe being a good girl protected her in some ways.
But it required her to neglect herself in so many others.
To be a good girl was an honor.
Being chosen was the plan.
To be picked was the expectation set for her from the beginning.
To be good and girl was the reward.
So she sighed, picked up her phone, and started typing.
This must come to an end.
