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"You dress like a girl"
I went to a Christmas party tonight. It was really a most excellent party. The food was good, and I actually had some conversations and socialized and such. Usually these parties have enough people in a small space that my survival instinct kicks into overdrive and I have to go hide in a quiet corner for most of the night.
I could talk about this party for a while, but that would not be fair to the privacy of the people who went, and besides, I really only want to tell one story, so I can have it recorded here. I do not want to forget this incident (not that there's much danger of that).
I felt I was dressed pretty moderately, when you consider that I came to this party one year in Daisy Duke cutoffs, black tights, and western boots. My hair was curly and all over the place; I was wearing very unobtrusive makeup (well, I thought it was unobtrusive) and some non-shocking earrings. I had on a black velvet leotard, blue jeans over that, a pair of my new shoes (moderately girly but not overtly so - I mean, they weren't heels or anything), and a gray cotton men's dress shirt. I wore the shirt with the sleeves rolled up and only the lowest button fastened, not tucked in, as an overshirt. With the shirt on, the leotard is not obvious unless you get close - it looks like a black T-shirt with a scoop neck. Okay?
Now, there were children at this party. I get along with children only in small doses, and even then our relationship amounts to a mutual non-aggression pact: You don't bother me and I won't bother you. Most kids do not actively get on my nerves unless I have to spend more than a few hours in their company. The kid in this story, however - let's call the kid Z, since no one at the party had that initial - causes me to grate my teeth within five seconds. Every time.
I was leaving the bathroom. Now, remember, to urinate while wearing a leotard I must
1. take off the gray overshirt and hang it somewhere;
2. drop the leotard off my shoulders;
3. undo my jeans, pull them down;
4. take the leotard (and the tights I'm wearing under the jeans - it's cold outside), and pull the lot down my body until the equipment I need is exposed.
I had done all this, and put everything but the gray shirt back the way it was supposed to be. I took the gray shirt in my hand and left the bathroom. The reason this is important: With the shirt off, it's much more obvious that I'm wearing a leotard. Much more obvious.
As I was walking down the upstairs hall, I ran into Z, who was dashing up the stairs (Z only has one movement speed - a dead run). Z watched me put the shirt on and button one button, studying me up and down the whole time. Z reached a conclusion. Z said to me:
"You dress like a girl."
And I looked down at Z and said, matter-of-factly:
"You're right."
What happened next was beautiful to behold. I could see the synapses popping in Z's head, one by one - trying to think of some place to file that concept, something to say back, and coming up blank.
Later, I was telling this story and Z's father was in the room, which made me a little nervous but he didn't seem to have a problem with it. When I finished, he nodded his head slowly and said, "Z needs more experiences like that."
So that worked out well. I just hope to god I can muster as much aplomb if an adult ever says something like that to me.
To date, none have.
© Columbine
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