Evolution of a Southern Soul

A good Southern girl knows you don't embarrass your momma or your momma's people (except maybe the one crazy aunt who I'd love to watch read every single word of this just to capture the looks of astonishment-turned-horror-turned-righteous-indignation).

But frankly I'm no longer a good Southern girl.

As to when exactly one stops being a Southern "girl" -- well, pretty much when she's damn good and ready. And the "good" part? that changes definition in time.

I was good at 12 because I didn't smoke or drink.

I was good at 16 because I had only smoked once, only drank at sleepovers (and was usually the one saying how we shouldn't and we'd be caught) and I wasn't screwing any boys. They did enjoy a touch of my breasts now and then, because yes, I have BREASTS. But the boys knew everything lower was off limits. Unless I really was curious but that's another story.

I was good at 24 because technically speaking I was a virgin bride (in other words no one had penetrated so I could still say I didn't screw around).

I was good at 35 because I could work all day, prepare quite a feast if I wanted to and we had the stuff to make biscuits, and still have the energy for a blow job. ('Course he didn't want one but that's yet another story.)

"Good" -- it's all about perspective.

Now four decades into all this and I'm not sure what "good" looks like in this strange place --
-divorced . . . so the church is less than thrilled with me and I work for them
-alone . . . so no "jobs" of any kind
-surrounded by friends . . . who have lives of their own
-haunted by what-ifs and should-have-beens

I'd love to be a brassy broad and strike off on some barely visible path to adventures unfathomable in my previous life.

I wonder if I shouldn't pursue the life of the saintly woman bestowing good will and wishes on all who encounter her.

But I can't recant my heritage. I'm supposed to be a good Southern girl --
-pragmatic and proud
-sensitive and sweet
-selfless and caring
-thoughtful and silently thought-filled

Who am I kidding?

Not happening.

So where does that leave me.

A person?

That would please the fem fatales who clamor to reclaim language.

But I'm too proud of what's not between my legs and too pleased that my chest -- if not my step -- retains its bounce. (I did mention that I had BREASTS, right?)

I don't want to simply be a "person."

And I love the warmth, humor and heaviness of the South that we wear like a favorite old coat (if it actually ever gets cold enough to build a relationship with a coat). Something inside me is secretly refreshed when once again the shroud of guilt covers me.

Perhaps I should just adjust. Perhaps the good Southern girl is now ready to be a great Southern woman.