The (Not) It Girl

I was reticent about naming this blog “thenotitgirl” because I figured some asshat would call it The “No Tit” Girl.

Now, as I see it, a translation like this could either imply that I am missing a breast or that there is a certain activity in my sexual repertoire that is off-limits. Since neither of those conclusions would be accurate, rather than come up with a different blog title, I figured maybe it would be valuable to draw those freaks in- you know, people who like to look at one-breasted women (please, no offense intended to rockstar ladies who undergo surgery to stave off breast cancer- I’d do it too, faster than you can say Nancy Nipples), or those freaks (read ME) who have already watched everything on Porn Hub. Readers are readers, and freaks have feelings too, you know.

And I got nothing against Porn Hub.

So I kept the name, and added some dashes. The tagline actually derives from the childhood game of Tag, and the palpable relief I remember feeling as a young girl when I would be able to scream “Not It!”

Ah, I would think.

I’m Not It.

When you’re not It, there’s no urgency to race through the neighborhood looking in bushes, behind rocks, inside people’s tool sheds. When you’re not It, you can hide and read and dream and think. When you’re not It, your power lies in your absence. If you’re found so BE IT, but you don’t have to BE IT. I remember relishing my anonymity, and even now I can feel the warmth of oblivion that cascaded down my spinal cord knowing I could recede into the cool depths and shadows of my neighborhood unseen, unheard, and uninteresting. It would be years before I discovered that the universe punishes those who crave anonymity.

Obviously my existence has not created in the universe a sense of obligation.

I’m 54 now, and still the little girl who is happy not being It. Come to the dead small-minded little island on which I live and you’ll find me where the action isn’t. I have never “fit in,” and my true friends (there aren’t many) show me love by not inviting me to their stupid shit. Dinner clubs? Boat parades? Pool parties?

Bosh. Fuck off.

I’m rarely in the right place to be. Beautiful beach day? I’m in a cool bookstore. Nor’easter? I’m walking in the maelstrom. Fourth of July at high tea, New Year’s Eve hiding in a desolate Maine B&B, the Super Bowl blessedly alone in a movie theater with a large popcorn and a box of Raisinets. I shop alone, take my boat out alone, travel alone, and think alone. If I am ever where I am supposed to be, it’s probably a major holiday or a funeral that I couldn’t find a way to get out of.

I hate being It.

When you’re It, your strength resides in your visibility. Your stride. Your confidence. Your voice projection. Your refusal to be deterred from your main objective: finding the others. Like a herding dog, It searches, collects and gathers the group so all can be together once again. It is never an introvert’s goal to find, but to avoid. Never to seek, but to recede. Never to draw out, but leave others where they are.

Invisibility is a super power, and I wear a cape with pride. But eventually we all must have our turn at being It, and it is finally my turn. So come with me on my journey.