Too many of us smile in lieu of showing what’s really on our minds. Despite all the work we American women have done to get and maintain full legal control of our bodies, not to mention our destinies, we still don’t seem to be fully in charge of a couple of small muscle groups in our faces.
I was boyish. I was athletic, ambitious, outspoken, competitive, noisy, rambunctious. I had scabs on my knees and my socks slid into my loafers and I could throw a football. I wanted desperately not to be that way. I wanted to be a girl, as soft and as pink as a nursery. And nothing would do that for me, I felt, but breasts.
Unexpectedly, with frightening speed, the boy’s Y chromosome kicks in. It’s a remarkable thing to watch. If anyone thinks gender is purely a social construct - as I once did - they should spend a couple hours with my sons. It’s like my boys read a book called The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Fulfilling Male Stereotypes.
The basic Female body comes with the following accessories: garter belt, panty-girdle, crinoline, camisole, bustle, brassiere, stomacher, chemise, virgin zone, spike heels, nose ring, veil, kid gloves, fishnet stockings, fichu, bandeau, Merry Widow, weepers, chokers, barrettes, bangles, beads, lorgnette, feather boa, basic black, compact, Lycra stretch one-piece with modesty panel, designer peignoir, flannel nightie, lace teddy, bed, head.