Ladies and Ladyboys, I give you Andrej Pejic. The fashion world is all aflutter with news of this androgyne. He's walked for menswear and couture and has campaigns lined up out the ass. Everyone is so amazed that he's a boy that looks like a girl as if it's some anomaly that occurs once every 75,000 years. While the fashion crowd my fawn, I say get in line. The Tranny Train has long since left the station. As someone who is often mistaken for a female, I don't understand what the big deal is. Of course, he looks like a girl and ends up becoming an international fashion model. I look like a girl and become bait for drunken homeless men.
Weeks before a surgery, I had to have a consultation with my doctor. Because I have yet to remaster the art of walking long distances, my father had to push me to the waiting area in a wheelchair. As he was maneuvering me into a parked position, a woman elbow deep in a bag of potato chips turned her attention away from her lunch to me.
I pretended not to notice her. Instead, I fumbled with the Safari app on my iPhone, trying to find a website that would make me look like I was doing something important (they should make an app for that). It used to be that when you buried your head in your cell phone people left you alone - a Do Not Disturb sign for the technological age. Now, people just don't care. So much for social graces.
And so the waiting room banter began. "I just love Dr. P. I've been seeing her since July". In between open-mouthed chews she asked what I was there for. Before I could answer, she interjected with "Oh, are you here for -", while gesturing towards her chest and mouthing the words "your breasts?" I guess she figured discretion was necessary being that my father was the only male in the area and women, even when seated in the waiting room of a plastic surgeon's office, need to maintain an air of mystery.
Taken aback and embarrassed in my father's presence I emphatically replied "No, no, no! I'm here for my leg!" and began pointing at it as if her x-ray vision could see what was wrong. She skeptically gave me a sideways glance and returned to her chips. I should have said "I'm here for my leg and I have a penis", but even then she would probably assume I'm a hermaphrodite instead of just going with the easier "Maybe he's a boy".
Another time, while at the bank, I gave the teller my ID with my given name on it - a name that is quite obviously masculine - and she took one look at me and said "Wow. Joseph. I never met a girl with that name before. That's unique". I just took my deposit slip and smiled. Although, in her defense, I was carrying a gold Chanel bag so that was probably just her Midwestern mind trying to make sense of the situation.
Among the many gender reclassification stories I could tell, my favorite has to be the time I was asked if I still menstruate. Apparently, I not only look like a woman. I look like a cast member of Golden Girls.
As awkward as the situation is, it's even more awkward to have to openly declare your gender; so I just continue the charade until I can politely excuse myself. I love that even on my worst days someone will address me as she, miss, or ma'am. It almost gives me a sense of pride. For me, fashion is largely about creating characters or an exaggerated version of self; a way of bringing a little fantasy into my reality. And the fact that I can pass as female means I can create more characters, which means I can justify buying that much more clothes.
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