As some of you know, I have a difficult time passing as female. Well, I mean passing as female in sunny Los Angeles, where women take great pains to flaunt their boobies and shaved va-jay-jays in order to authenticate their gender, and men...are everyone else. I have been called "sir" while carrying a purse, wearing a dress, wearing lipstick, and/or sporting a pair of shoes with heels. While my slight mustache and unruly mop of hair do lend me a certain haggard-Jack White-who-has-developed-man-tits-from-eating-too many-glazed-donuts aspect, I would think that my inability to work things with gears would put any gender troubling rumors to rest. I guess not.
To wit: I love butch women. Nothing is hotter to me han a boyish dame who wears flannel shirts, puffy vests, and carries an enormous wrench in her back denim pocket. Women with mullets and bulging biceps to match make me avert my gaze and mutter quietly to myself. Well, most things make me do that, but you know what I mean.
I also can appreciate a femme woman. As my 8th grade Woodworking teacher used to remark, "I like to see a woman in a dress." (Mr. McKeon wasn't shy about sharing his views on most things, except maybe how to avoid slicing off your finger in the band saw). It's nice if it's a quirky sort of dress with Yodas and shit on it, but I'm not particular. I like pretty, sparkly nails and admire anyone who can keep from biting theirs down to the quick like I do. I even like really pointy high heeled shoes. I would wear them myself if I wasn't risking killing myself by falling down the library stairwell.
In other words, I may not be a girly-girl (and my un-manicured hands will always give this away) but I am not that majesty that is a butch woman, which is simply something I can't pull off, not something I scorn or I hate. But if I were, the "sirs" would make more sense. I can only assume that my relative gender neutrality translates to masculine in hyper lady land L.A. In Iowa, I am without question a woman (and relatively thin, even). In California, I am just one of the boys with a fashionably waxed chest and the droopy pectorals of the formerly fit and the currently elderly.
However, I've recently figured out what to wear in L.A. For years, I've gotten my Judith Butler on simply by wearing jeans and a t-shirt. My one concession to femininity has been to favor V-necks over round ones because they accentuate my smallish (but perfectly visible, damn it) breasts. But now I have a uniform, and it all came about quite by accident. Completely depressed to be back in Los Angeles after a year in Chicago, I spent about two weeks wearing my "work out" clothes, which consist of rump-caressing yoga pants and shiny tank tops with the bras built in. During that time, I was not called sir once, and believe me, I'd done nothing unorthodox with my hair, make up, or toes. In fact, my toes were in need of a shaving, but they were usually covered in my $150 running shoes.
And that was it! This particular "athletic" look I'd put together assembled some of the priciest items in my meager Midwestern wardrobe. I'd clearly spent money, and my tits were on prominent display. Also, I was apparently ready to drop whatever I was doing at any given moment and go exercise. These three components spell WOMAN, people. I had cracked L.A.'s gender code!
Until I throw on a ratty sweatshirt or other piece of lumberjack-wear. Then it's back to the "sirs" and weird looks when I enter the Ladies room and whatnot.
So where's my male privilege, damn it? It's just LIKE the patriarchy not to kick in when the man behind the boyish pose is a woman. I think I need to go even further, cut off all my hair, and stuff my pants with a foil-covered cucumber. As long as I don't have to go through any metal detectors or change a tire, I think my secret will be safe.
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