I'm loathe to admit this but I'm going to anyway: even as few as eighteen months ago...maybe even twelve...I wouldn't have thought much of some dude asking me for the time. But it went like this yesterday, and I have been thinking about it, and I'm gonna say something about it. Right now.
I pulled in to Paul's Bicycle near the butte for some air. I like that they've fixed the public access compressed air hose and I can just wheel up and not even go inside. I'm bent over my tire (ass-end away from the door and traffic), squatting really, and a fragrant black man exits with his biking onesie and wheeling his wheels out.
"You got the time?" he wafts over to me, in a straightforward way.
"No. I don't even know what time I left the house," I say in a straightforward way, without smiling too much.
He peels his cuff back from his wrist, "Oh I'm wearing a watch. Just didn't feel like looking."
Inwardly I'm scrunching my face at him. I keep fussing with the hose and Presta valve. He intones, "The time is now...12:10! Have a nice day!"
"You too, thanks," I reply. With a not-high and smiling voice. Just, you know, regular. Not feminine. I'm making sure of that. Not because he's black. Not because I feel menaced. Because I'm regulating my smiley vibes and not actually feeling smiley and hyper-aware of how much of my life I've spent doing a smiley thing especially around men. I offer, because it's true, and we are both obviously into our bicycles and riding them, and we are all a fellowship of bicyclists, "Beautiful day for a ride. Enjoy."
"Thank you, my dear," and he coasts down the ramp.
The thing is, interactions like this, with a particular sort of vibe, and intonation, and body talk, and perfumery, announce to me that this is about a peacock strutting. It's not particularly about me, or making a connection with another human being, with people who display like this. And I didn't feel particularly incensed (which surprised me).
I was so glad that I wasn't effusive with my wishes for a good ride, that I wasn't indulgent. I did recognize that when he asked me for the time, part of my brain was thinking about where my flip phone was and I could haul it out of my inner bag and tell him the time - in tandem, my brain was thinking, "I'm sure there is a clock right on the other side of this wall as you leave the establishment," and then he simply pulled the wristcuff of his sleeve up.
I mean, why would he ask me for the time? You tell me. I know what I think.
And why did he ask me (he seemed straight, maybe he wasn't? maybe he thought I was straight? the vibe was there but maybe it's like reverse gaydar and mine was broken that day but what about my gut feeeeeelings)?? It must be the scarf. Or the leggings. Because otherwise I present as butch. Ish. I think. Or not femmy. I certainly did not turn my head to look at him when he came out of the shop.
Sure! It could be that he just wanted to make a small polite conversation with someone. It could be. And that was probably part of it. But it's so weird to me. SO weird. The more I give guys less attention, the more it seems like they seek to make sure I have a reason to acknowledge them.
On a related note:
I was hanging out with some new friends a few weeks ago. Two sweet fun hilarious trans guys, married to each other (oh my god I love these guys) and a friend of theirs who had just finished up a really long bicycle tour. She had just spent four days on a train to arrive in Eugene. Talk of impending Autumn, and K sure didn't want to wear 'long sleeves' on her legs. She's a plaid-and-cargo-shorts kinda person. I agreed, as I love wearing 'short sleeves' but, I was looking forward to wearing leggings, so comfy.
When I said 'leggings' I swear the room went still*. Something passed through that room. I know I felt weird! It looked to me like they felt weird. These are new friends we're getting along so swimmingly and I want so badly to be liked and loved, my little me voice inside said...what did I say...wrong. Am I not queer enough? Too straight? Too cis? Too something or not enough something? Am I butch? A dyke? A femme? All three? None? Other?
Later when I thought about it I laughed, and I laughed harder thinking of what I wished I had done in that moment (if I wasn't so fixated on playing it cool and ignoring my weird feeling and not crumpling in an unbecoming way because the little me feels like I never fit anywhere, no matter what):
I wished I had looked at each of them in turn with a smile and loud-whispered,
"Leggings...leggings...leggings!"
And then, "Just checking to see if any of us were going to evaporate or self-immolate or something; that word seems to carry some weight?" and been genuinely curious and humorous about it.
Then somehow - how did this happen?? - K talked about boxer shorts. Previously B and S had told me of an incident where a lady neighbor had mistaken their apartment for hers and walked in on them both as they were lounging around in their boxers. I think that was a test of some sort, to see if I could be trusted with this bit of info. Fuck yeah, wear boxers, wear whatever makes you feel good! Of course! But then this day when K dropped in a line about buying boxers and they all nodded about something (a good deal? a good brand? I don't know, I was hyper-aware of body language, subtext, and a frisson of other stuff that I was dealing with internally)...I felt like such a white cis straight female, like I was so straight and vanilla and ugh, ugh. I just let them say whatever they were saying and wished for a plus one or a club cufflink or something.
But I don't like boxers on my body, underneath jeans. I fucking hate the way they bunch up, and feel like even more flesh when I don't want more flesh or wrinkles or bulk. It's like trying to wear long johns underneath jeans. NO. No. Nooooo. I would wear briefs but they're very bulky as well, and binding around the legs. So I wear things that are smooth and do not bind or ruck up.
Looking back on it, if I had been feeling more secure and jocular, I would have chimed in - "I don't know what you're on about, g-strings are the most comfortable by far. I love my thongs!"
I cut my hair so so short this year. I don't think there's any going back. I use a pair of cheap scissors and trimming it is an activity that fulfills my OCDs because with short hair you cut at home without benefit of clippers you just have to trim it continually. I guess I still look and act like a straight female to most guys though. I was approached by a young man at least half my age when I sat down at a bench on the bike path to read (You guys. I turned 50 in February). He crossed over made a beeline for me. I am not even kidding. WHY?!
"How are you?"
"I"m awesome," and I went back to reading my book.
He sat down next to me. "Mind if I sit here?" I said to him, "There are plenty of other benches." And he goes, "Yeah but I want to talk to you." I slapped my book shut, dropped it in my pannier, swung a leg over and said, "Well. I don't feel like talking to anyone."
"Oh. Well stay pretty!"
???
!!!
What? Maybe I should feel comforted by the fact that my chin-wag bits and puckery lined lips (they are not smooth any more not by a long shot) and puffy eyes and crow's feet were, what, surpassed by my stellar cowlick (I actually love my cowlick) and red hair and....euw but gross, dude, you are...you could be my grandson.
On the upside, I was identified twice this year as a 'Sir', by men, who then quickly apologized.
I like leggings*. I like scoop neck shirts. I like button-downs, with all the buttons undone and a tanktop underneath. I like scarves. I love jeans. I have no use for my boobs, but there they are, and I'm not binding them or undergoing top surgery. I could lose 25 pounds and be very boyish looking and in fact I would prefer that, I would UBER prefer that, but I'm not going to diet again, ever (see previous post). I have some short jersey skirts (shout-whispered), I might wear them with my leggings (also shout-whispered) again this year. I love wearing skate shoes with my jeans and scarves. I wish I was rail-thin and had no boobs. I wish I was narrow-hipped. I'm not. I don't like wearing suits or ties. So I guess I'm still making this up as I go along and dressing each day as I feel most comfortable and I'm not a girl or a boy or a woman or a man, so.
* edit, Saturday October 19th. I just stumbled on this article, Fat-Booty Butch Wears Leggings - Confuses World, Confronts Self. Yasssss.
I pulled in to Paul's Bicycle near the butte for some air. I like that they've fixed the public access compressed air hose and I can just wheel up and not even go inside. I'm bent over my tire (ass-end away from the door and traffic), squatting really, and a fragrant black man exits with his biking onesie and wheeling his wheels out.
"You got the time?" he wafts over to me, in a straightforward way.
"No. I don't even know what time I left the house," I say in a straightforward way, without smiling too much.
He peels his cuff back from his wrist, "Oh I'm wearing a watch. Just didn't feel like looking."
Inwardly I'm scrunching my face at him. I keep fussing with the hose and Presta valve. He intones, "The time is now...12:10! Have a nice day!"
"You too, thanks," I reply. With a not-high and smiling voice. Just, you know, regular. Not feminine. I'm making sure of that. Not because he's black. Not because I feel menaced. Because I'm regulating my smiley vibes and not actually feeling smiley and hyper-aware of how much of my life I've spent doing a smiley thing especially around men. I offer, because it's true, and we are both obviously into our bicycles and riding them, and we are all a fellowship of bicyclists, "Beautiful day for a ride. Enjoy."
"Thank you, my dear," and he coasts down the ramp.
The thing is, interactions like this, with a particular sort of vibe, and intonation, and body talk, and perfumery, announce to me that this is about a peacock strutting. It's not particularly about me, or making a connection with another human being, with people who display like this. And I didn't feel particularly incensed (which surprised me).
I was so glad that I wasn't effusive with my wishes for a good ride, that I wasn't indulgent. I did recognize that when he asked me for the time, part of my brain was thinking about where my flip phone was and I could haul it out of my inner bag and tell him the time - in tandem, my brain was thinking, "I'm sure there is a clock right on the other side of this wall as you leave the establishment," and then he simply pulled the wristcuff of his sleeve up.
I mean, why would he ask me for the time? You tell me. I know what I think.
And why did he ask me (he seemed straight, maybe he wasn't? maybe he thought I was straight? the vibe was there but maybe it's like reverse gaydar and mine was broken that day but what about my gut feeeeeelings)?? It must be the scarf. Or the leggings. Because otherwise I present as butch. Ish. I think. Or not femmy. I certainly did not turn my head to look at him when he came out of the shop.
Sure! It could be that he just wanted to make a small polite conversation with someone. It could be. And that was probably part of it. But it's so weird to me. SO weird. The more I give guys less attention, the more it seems like they seek to make sure I have a reason to acknowledge them.
On a related note:
I was hanging out with some new friends a few weeks ago. Two sweet fun hilarious trans guys, married to each other (oh my god I love these guys) and a friend of theirs who had just finished up a really long bicycle tour. She had just spent four days on a train to arrive in Eugene. Talk of impending Autumn, and K sure didn't want to wear 'long sleeves' on her legs. She's a plaid-and-cargo-shorts kinda person. I agreed, as I love wearing 'short sleeves' but, I was looking forward to wearing leggings, so comfy.
When I said 'leggings' I swear the room went still*. Something passed through that room. I know I felt weird! It looked to me like they felt weird. These are new friends we're getting along so swimmingly and I want so badly to be liked and loved, my little me voice inside said...what did I say...wrong. Am I not queer enough? Too straight? Too cis? Too something or not enough something? Am I butch? A dyke? A femme? All three? None? Other?
Later when I thought about it I laughed, and I laughed harder thinking of what I wished I had done in that moment (if I wasn't so fixated on playing it cool and ignoring my weird feeling and not crumpling in an unbecoming way because the little me feels like I never fit anywhere, no matter what):
I wished I had looked at each of them in turn with a smile and loud-whispered,
"Leggings...leggings...leggings!"
And then, "Just checking to see if any of us were going to evaporate or self-immolate or something; that word seems to carry some weight?" and been genuinely curious and humorous about it.
Then somehow - how did this happen?? - K talked about boxer shorts. Previously B and S had told me of an incident where a lady neighbor had mistaken their apartment for hers and walked in on them both as they were lounging around in their boxers. I think that was a test of some sort, to see if I could be trusted with this bit of info. Fuck yeah, wear boxers, wear whatever makes you feel good! Of course! But then this day when K dropped in a line about buying boxers and they all nodded about something (a good deal? a good brand? I don't know, I was hyper-aware of body language, subtext, and a frisson of other stuff that I was dealing with internally)...I felt like such a white cis straight female, like I was so straight and vanilla and ugh, ugh. I just let them say whatever they were saying and wished for a plus one or a club cufflink or something.
But I don't like boxers on my body, underneath jeans. I fucking hate the way they bunch up, and feel like even more flesh when I don't want more flesh or wrinkles or bulk. It's like trying to wear long johns underneath jeans. NO. No. Nooooo. I would wear briefs but they're very bulky as well, and binding around the legs. So I wear things that are smooth and do not bind or ruck up.
Looking back on it, if I had been feeling more secure and jocular, I would have chimed in - "I don't know what you're on about, g-strings are the most comfortable by far. I love my thongs!"
I cut my hair so so short this year. I don't think there's any going back. I use a pair of cheap scissors and trimming it is an activity that fulfills my OCDs because with short hair you cut at home without benefit of clippers you just have to trim it continually. I guess I still look and act like a straight female to most guys though. I was approached by a young man at least half my age when I sat down at a bench on the bike path to read (You guys. I turned 50 in February). He crossed over made a beeline for me. I am not even kidding. WHY?!
"How are you?"
"I"m awesome," and I went back to reading my book.
He sat down next to me. "Mind if I sit here?" I said to him, "There are plenty of other benches." And he goes, "Yeah but I want to talk to you." I slapped my book shut, dropped it in my pannier, swung a leg over and said, "Well. I don't feel like talking to anyone."
"Oh. Well stay pretty!"
???
!!!
What? Maybe I should feel comforted by the fact that my chin-wag bits and puckery lined lips (they are not smooth any more not by a long shot) and puffy eyes and crow's feet were, what, surpassed by my stellar cowlick (I actually love my cowlick) and red hair and....euw but gross, dude, you are...you could be my grandson.
On the upside, I was identified twice this year as a 'Sir', by men, who then quickly apologized.
I like leggings*. I like scoop neck shirts. I like button-downs, with all the buttons undone and a tanktop underneath. I like scarves. I love jeans. I have no use for my boobs, but there they are, and I'm not binding them or undergoing top surgery. I could lose 25 pounds and be very boyish looking and in fact I would prefer that, I would UBER prefer that, but I'm not going to diet again, ever (see previous post). I have some short jersey skirts (shout-whispered), I might wear them with my leggings (also shout-whispered) again this year. I love wearing skate shoes with my jeans and scarves. I wish I was rail-thin and had no boobs. I wish I was narrow-hipped. I'm not. I don't like wearing suits or ties. So I guess I'm still making this up as I go along and dressing each day as I feel most comfortable and I'm not a girl or a boy or a woman or a man, so.
* edit, Saturday October 19th. I just stumbled on this article, Fat-Booty Butch Wears Leggings - Confuses World, Confronts Self. Yasssss.
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