Let’s just get this out of the way right now. I hate my gender.
You know that beer ad where a guy gets stuck on an elevator with two women gabbing about their eye shadows and night creams until his head literally explodes? If I were a better writer, I could have written that.
Last week I went to a Bastille Day wine tasting, where I imagined The Man and I could get drunk on Burgundy while watching a French singing Hipster Prohibition era jazz band from Brooklyn. What we got was a room full of chatty single women drowning out the music by comparing their idiotically high espadrilles to their pep-toe doilies instead of quietly enjoying their Côtes du Rôhne. You can’t swallow and compare shoes at the same time. If that were possible men and women would have worked out their differences long ago.
My husband-to-be leaned over and said, “You know, if I spent five minutes with each of these girls I could tell you exactly why they’re still single.”
Five minutes? I can tell you now. They’re girls.
I was once forced into the unfortunate situation of having to find a Craigslist roommate. Most fear typical horror stories of unpaid cable and stray fecal matter, but my anxieties reached their zenith when my roommate attempted congeniality by inviting me to a “Gossip Girl” party in our living room. I assumed she was describing her friends.
Judging from the oversized bottles of cheap pino grigio she'd set out for the vag fest, I sensed the imminent torture and politely declined. The girls arrived, and they were all, so….so bubbly! So OMIGAW! I closed my door, opting to be the weirdo in her bedroom.
I’m used to it. The hatred always goes both ways. On the rare occasion I find myself in pink a room filled with an Anthropologie sorority, I get rendered an instant outcast before you can say US Weekly. Maybe it’s because I don’t state everything as a question??? Or that I’m not up on the last episode, or any, of The Hills. Or perhaps it’s my plastered expression of horror.
And no, I’m not gay. If I don’t like someone, what makes you think I want to see them without pants?
And no, I don’t wish I had a penis. I can barely control my hair, let alone a couple of extra organs hanging from my crotch. That, and I’d have to date chicks.
I guess I could be a gay dude. Glitter! Fun! But it’s not the point. I don’t want to be a guy, because, I actually enjoy being a …oh you know how the song goes. Don’t make me admit it. I like dresses, they feel like pajamas. I’m down with soft skin. Smelling like mangoes is also fun. Granted I don’t want to read the same regurgitated In Style article about “Five hot tricks for fabulous summer elbows!” But I like things to look nice. Why wouldn’t I wish the same for myself?
Of course there are non-girl girls out there. Ones with tastes and personalities that would create instant mutual bonds, if we were guys. But if they’re like me, you can also bet they’ll be full of the same judgments and skepticism that causes my hate in the first place. And I’ll walk into a room and they look at me like, “Who’s the dumb bitch in the Anthropologie?” You can’t win.