And I guess in a way I was the son my dad wished for (only better, he he). I was such a tomboy: climbing trees, catching polywogs (one grew into a frog almost, only had just a short tail left), fighting (stupidly with kids bigger than me), playing marbles ( I was good too, won all the neighbor boy's till he became the boy with no marbles). I figured anything a boy could do I could do better till I got to cub scout age and they wouldn't let me go (back then). Boy was I ripped off. I boycotted dresses and wore plaid shirts and denim jeans, had long hair but always in 2 braids (which suited my freckled nose), packed a slingshot to ping any of those stupid (lucky boys), and wished everyday I was one (and that had nothing to do with penis envy).
I grew up and fell in love with a cowboy who lets me do all the boy things (except the standing up to you- know-what) I want. He even bought me the Red Rider BB gun I always wanted (to shoot coyotes that come that close to get my dog and believe me the dirty beggars do).
I'm his hired man and he expects a lot. Some times I have to remind him "Hey, I'm a 56 year old lady, not a 34 year old man."
But he buys me pretty things too: Crystal candle holders, pink flowery dishes, lace curtains, a lucious (fake) fur coat (that I didn't even need), cute socks, much needed makeup; things the girl in me really likes. He's kissed me, horseback, under the watchful eye of a big yellow harvest moon, protected me from hurtful people, tenderly taken charge when I was too scared to face something. He lies and tells me I'm pretty, and apologizes even when it's me that's wrong. He's made me glad I'm a girl. (Now if he could just make me happy to cook.)