XX (January 25, 2012)

So I'm at the gym, doing bent-over one-arm rows.
"I don't want to see any of that shitty-push-up shoulder," my coach says.
"Right. Strong man-shoulders," I say.
"Strong woman shoulders," he says. "I'm a feminist."

I'm not.

Growing up, I never gave a second thought to the basic notion that I would grow up and be a man. It never occurred to me to doubt it. I was smart, loud, unafraid. I followed my dad around everywhere, sitting up on the bathroom counter and smearing my face with shaving cream, dragging a dull razor over my soft cheeks to learn this necessary art. I learned to tie a tie. I played the boys' games, I beat boys academically for every prize my schools offered. I disdained fashion, and girly gossip, and long hair, makeup, romance books - the lot of it. I raided my brother's room for boys' books - the worst fantasy and science fiction dreck, and I devoured them. I spent hours roaming the woods behind our house, up to my knees in mud, jeans torn on old barbed wire, daydreaming about hiking the Appalachian trail.

And yet, as it turned out, the universe did not care. Start out a girl, end up a woman. Not a surprise to anyone but me.

I think I'm used to it now, but I'm still looking for a loophole, some way out of this womanhood thing. Although now I have the girliest of jobs, in the past I've been a carpenter, a welder, a technical director. ("What's the difference between blue collar workers and white collar workers?" "White collar workers wash their hands after they pee.") I can build anything. These days the job that tempts me most is plumber. Something dirty, physical. Something hard and dumb, all brute force and no charades - honest work. Man's work.

I still wear short dresses in the rain, with the tall boots under them that say, at least to me, "These may look objectively attractive, but really, they're the only waterproof footwear I own." Men look, and I like it, but underneath I still think I'm one of them. Or that I could be. Someday.

There are advantages to being a girl, sure. The main one being that I get away with everything. It's not fair at all, but people look at me (small, white, reasonably pretty, nice smile) and see innocence, someone pure, someone they trust and want to help. (A blunt contrast to small, pretty, nice-smiling, non-white friends of mine, assumed to be prostitutes or foreigners.)

I do not deserve this treatment; never have. Over the years I have escaped suspicion for so many crimes, and been easily forgiven for others: lying, stealing, cheating, trespassing, cutting class, beating up a fifth grader every day before school until he got a concussion and was withdrawn by his parents, and on and on. On the streets of New York I walk with a sneer, plowing ahead, shoulder-checking women whose glittering handbags get in my way. Things that would be grounds for a fight, if I were a man. But I'm not.

I crave repercussions. How thrilling would it be if someone called me out, punched me when I deserved it, looked at me and saw someone guilty and devious and mean?

While working on arty blog it has almost happened. A (homeless?) drunk objected to my actions and stomped all over the writing, smearing his foot in the chalk and getting in my face, shouting. But how the danger passed - a passing hipster boy felt compelled to rescue me, drawing the drunk off and down into the bowels (safety?) of the subway station.

Another instance: a flat-fix shop owner barreled out of his store to stop me from chalking on his sidewalk. He'd had experience with this sort of thing before: he was driving down the expressway ramp above his shop when he saw a pretty young girl climbing his fence. When he got to the shop, she had spray-painted it. His sense of betrayal was palpable; how could she have done that to him? But he was on to me, and brooking no objections. He knew even the pretty girls could be bad news.

He should spread the word. We shouldn't get away with the things we do.

They say that under a barbell we're all the same. Just you and the iron. But I wonder: are we? I move these loads, and I love doing it. Heavier and heavier, sometimes a fight and sometimes easy - too often easy. I'm still me under that bar, girly and nervous, doing it or not. Giving up or not. It depends on the day.

People - strong people, damn impressive people - call me strong, and I want to be. But I can't believe them. I know they mean it, I appreciate it, and yet. It will never be enough, it will never be true. No matter how well-meant, it is always also a bit of a joke. No matter how strong I get, I will only ever be strong for a girl.