The August long weekend was devoted to my lifelong best friend's bridal shower, but despite that fact we managed to mostly avoid talk of weddings and marriage and even fleeting singleness. Seven girls including myself fled the city and took refuge at Lisa's cabin outside the town of Sundre. We were all excited to relax and drink and tan and swim in the river without worrying about the male gaze. Some of our number became quickly comfortable and relapsed into a state of partial nudity without a backward glance. Others, myself included, were spiritually willing but fleshfully reticent to join the trend.
I spent a lot of time analysing my reticence, even after I finally gave in. I was not surrounded by perfectly groomed, manicured, and polished supermodels, but normal girls with whom I shared laughter and interests. For the whole weekend we saw no trace of male humans, so I couldn't attribute my discomfort to them, either. I couldn't shake the sense that I was being judged, appraised, categorized. And I couldn't stop acknowledging that I have always attributed that sense, however indirectly, to the male gaze. My situation forced me to reconsider.
I have come to the conclusion that I was frightened for these women to understand my secret. Not some hidden mole or skin condition or hairy growth or third nipple. I mean the reason behind my failures, the one thing I've never been able to grasp myself. I thought, however fleetingly, that they would be able to see why I have managed to remain unloved, and that the answer would be written on their faces.
I can't decide whether I'm relieved or aggravated that no such answer was written anywhere by the time we drove away Monday afternoon.
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