![]() Weirdly, popular opinion has voted for my kind of body. Women train to look like me, and now and then come up to ask for tips. What do you do to look this way, they ask. Nothing, I say, I was born this way. I get a worried look in response. They think I'm lying. Well, I'm pretty active, I say, to help them out. I roller skate, I play tennis. They call me lucky. It is a quiet revenge for years of incredulous shrieks in bathrooms and dressing rooms. There's a boy in here! Groups of girls stand around in conference, throwing glances at me. I do my best to look indifferent. Finally a spokesperson is elected, comes up: Are you a boy or a girl? The rest cluster around. My breasts, which I would just as soon hide from the world forever, are adduced as evidence. My clothes are plucked, assessed. Sometimes the interrogation is merely curious, sometimes it is hostile. It is all horrible to me. I wish I could keep my body out of the running, go to a third restroom, the one for monsters and hermaphrodites. |
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