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Dear Karen
The reason I apologize for my content so often is that I figure it's always making someone want to poke fun at me - if not holler at me outright.
I mean, when I go back and read the previous entry, my first thought is, "Now I'm going to get some nasty comments from _______, when they tell me exactly how full of **** I am."
But when I read the "girl stuff" entry before that, I think, "Hmm, I know that _______ are reading this and rolling their eyes and thinking exactly how full of **** I am."
There could have been a lot of other names to go in those blanks.
Part of it is my insecurity. And - truth be told - part of it is is that I have a lot of hyperintelligent, hypercritical friends.
Today I had some more Adventures in Girldom. I'll write about those on Monday - I have another rant to write tonight while it's still fresh in my head, and it's already 1:30 in the morning.
But here's the germane part: As I went through those adventures today, I realized that not even Nonelvis - who, aside from my sister, may be the person I trust the most in the world - understands. Oh, she tolerates it. Sometimes she finds it endearingly amusing. Sometimes she finds it sexy. But she does not understand why I envy women their skirts and get depressed over my hair looking horrible and fuss over which earrings to wear.
In October we go down to see the family for my sister's wedding. My sister will react the way Nonelvis does. She tolerates me. She knows I have my reasons. She does not understand them.
And those are the good reactions. Everyone else, I suspect at one time or another of laughing behind their hands. And I have a few friends I believe would ridicule me openly, with just a hair less tact on their part or just a hair more overt behavior on mine.
My behavior is getting more overt. Sooner or later, it will have to become clear who really sympathizes - and who has secretly been thinking all this time that I'm making myself look stupid.
My problem isn't with people thinking I'm making a fool of myself with this gender stuff. My problem is when they don't tell me for a while, when they spring it on me without warning.
It's like walking around with snot hanging out of your nose or spinach between your teeth. For god's sake, if I'm at dinner with you and this happens, tell me quietly so I can run to the bathroom and fix it. Don't be one of those people who tells me after the dinner's over and everyone's been secretly thinking how stupid I look. Or worse, one of those people who doesn't say anything at all, and I find out in the mirror when I get home.
Of course, the metaphor doesn't quite fit, because with my earrings and such, there is always the chance that I will ignore you, say "To hell with that, I'm doing it even if I do look stupid" - but I need to know. Not knowing is killing me. I have never wished for telepathy more times than I have during this week.
But I digress. (That should be the title of this journal.)
Anyway, Karen, every time I write something lately - not just about gender - I've been waiting for the other foot to fall. I'm not scared of someone telling me I'm wrong. I am scared of someone telling me I'm making an ass of myself. That's a fine line. Some of my friends have a habit of crossing it.
I need to know when I'm making an ass of myself. But finding out frightens me. It gives me a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. The only other times I get that feeling are when I miss important appointments and when I know I'm being called in to get fired.
So that's why I'm jumpy. And apologetic.
And now it's two a.m. and I'm off to compose another rant - things I need to vent here, things I need to say - ever mindful of that other foot dropping.
© Columbine
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