I’ve failed utterly at practicing peace this year. I worry a lot.
One of the many things weighing on me at the moment is pants. Yes, pants. You see, I don’t wear pants. I don’t own pants. I don’t like pants. The best pants? No pants. Okay, okay, so I have the paint-spattered pair that I use when I’m building dollhouses and sheds. And I have the pair that I keep at work to wear when I’m needed in the lab or the field. But now I have to wear pants every Friday for the next 10 weeks. And at least one day per week for the remainder of the school year. And in the far-off future, when I’m done with school (by the way, I went back to school…again), I will likely have to wear pants every day. Because safety.
And I hate pants.
And even more than pants, I hate the weight carried by women’s clothing. The weight of expectations and implications, the demands of stereotypes and society.
A woman’s clothing is always wrong. It’s too revealing or covers too much, too short or too long, too feminine or too masculine. It’s too cheap or too expensive or too new or too old, too attention-getting or too boring.
The game is rigged.
And apparently, the rules are changing on me. I’m new to this publicly-known-as-bisexual thing, but so far, this is what I have gathered:
- Society has super rigid boxes labeled Male and Female.
- Society gets super confused about same-sex couples because the Male and Female boxes are so rigidly enforced, and the Male box so central to the structure of society (as they see it), that they aren’t sure what box anyone fits into anymore.
- I find women attractive, and so I must be trying to fit myself in the Male box.
- I present as very feminine, so I can’t fit in the Male box, because the Male box must never be sullied by such things as ruffles.
- Commence Society pulling its hair out over the conundrum of which box to put me in.
I like to picture Society as Vizzini, trying to decide which goblet has the iocane powder in it.
There’s probably more to it but I’ve kind of been busy living the same life I was living before I came out, except with this giant red “B” pinned to my chest, and haven’t had time to figure it all out. And I don’t think it’s my job to squish myself into the tiny boxes in others’ tiny minds. I mean, I guess I could go buy a Subaru and a flannel shirt, but that would leave me no time to shop for pants.