The right to be handsome.

I just read the transcript of a PBS interview entitled “The right to be handsome.” I hadn’t planned on blogging again so soon, but I started writing a facebook post and realized I had more to say than would fit in that little box.

From the time I was very little, I hated clothes shopping. I can remember my mom dragging me around the store and both of us were so exasperated by the time we were done that we had no idea what to do with each other. I know I’m not unique in that. A lot of women hate clothes shopping. I think part of it was just another manifestation of the disease of addiction. That ever-present awkwardness with my skin, my body, and my self that made nothing FEEL right. Up until a few years ago, I’d have panic attacks in department stores. I just couldn’t take it.

I never thought about it until I was reading this article tonight, but I remember being in elementary school and feeling so foreign – so out of place. My big brother Tom wore what I suppose was the style then – two Izod shirts. Layering was cool in the early 80’s, I guess. I distinctly remember dressing like that one day and feeling ahhhhhhhhhhh. Better. This fits. This works.

I didn’t figure out that I was gay until I was 17, but I knew that girl’s clothes felt utterly and completely wrong on me well before that. I’ve theorized that since my mother wasn’t available to me in my formative years, that I had no one else to emulate BUT my brothers. I dressed preppy like my eldest brother for many years, then something happened in the 8^th grade and switched to emulating my other brother. The middle child. The trouble maker. The COOL KID. I started wearing black jeans and black t-shirts and that was my wardrobe until I left high school.

After that I spent many years wearing whatever my girlfriends suggested I wear. I didn’t know how to shop. I didn’t know how to pick stuff out. I couldn’t figure out what looked good with what. I needed someone to make these difficult life decisions for me. I wanted to look nice. I didn’t know how to pull that off. Even though I’d look at myself and think that these clothes were ‘wrong,’ I would trust YOU. You would tell me if it looked bad. You would tell me if I needed to change. You wouldn’t steer me wrong, would you?

I finally just reverted back to high school. Jeans and t-shirts. In summer, cargo shorts and t-shirts. I had a closet full of funny, quirky t-shirts. I kept Shirt Woot and T-Fury in business. I honestly had no other idea what to do.

Alert – this may be more than you want to know about me. You can get out now. I’ll never even know you were here.

A woman in my life once told me that she just felt more confident when she wore sexy underwear. No one had to know she was wearing them. She wasn’t wearing them because she had a hot date or for anyone in particular, but she just felt more alive – more like a woman – when she did. That was never my experience. I’ve had girlfriends buy me lingerie before. I’d wear it for them, but I never felt that thing she was talking about.

And then, The L Word happened. The world was introduced to Shane McCutcheon. I always wanted to be like Shane. I’m much more of a Dana, but I really wanted to have that… swagger... that Shane had. So I went to the store and I bought men’s underwear. For the first time in my life, I felt THAT THING. No one needed to know, but underneath, I was feeling very Shane today.

Years later, it all stopped working for me. I stopped feeling like I looked cute and quirky in my amusing t-shirts and started feeling like I looked a slob. I don’t know what caused that. I don’t remember there being any particular incident that caused the sudden upheaval of my clothing comfort zone. It just… happened. Most likely, it was because I’d been single for a few years and decided I was going to have to clean my shit up if I was ever going to find love. I’m still working on that. I’ll keep you posted.

And as often precedes the greatest growth in our lives, in came the pain. To want with ever fiber of your being to change, and to have neither the knowledge nor the ability to make those changes happen is a horrible place to be.

I was stuck between a rock and a hard place. If I put on women’s clothing, I felt like a monkey in a suit. My insecurity blew through the roof because I felt like I had tattooed on my forehead “this person has no idea what she is doing!” They didn’t feel right against my skin, they didn’t feel right in the reflection, and they didn’t feel right in the well-intentioned support of my friends who told me I looked great. Everything was just… wrong. But what’s the alternative? Men’s clothes. Women don’t wear men’s clothes.

What you don’t know is that it started in high school. “Is that a guy or a girl?” “Is that a dude or a chick?” Laughter followed by “What IS that?” I was ashamed of who I was and had no idea how to be any different. I wanted to be invisible. Stop looking at me that way. Stop saying that. Can’t you see that I’m a girl? I know I don’t know how to be a girl, but I am a girl. I am a girl. I used to get called sir all the time. It burned each and every single time. It was worse when I’d be with someone I knew. The only thing worse than a shameful experience is a witness to a shameful experience. And my friends would always say the same thing: “I don’t see how anyone could ever mistake you for a guy.” And I appreciated the sentiment, but it was just that. A nice sentiment.

So I can’t wear women’s clothes because everything about them feels wrong, and I can’t wear men’s clothes because my soul can’t bear the shame of the confused stares. What to do?

Own that shit.

That’s what you do. I once bought a suit to wear to a Halloween party. It was a very nice pinstriped men’s suit. With it, I wore a red shirt and a silver tie. I put that suit on and for the first time ever, I looked in the mirror and I thought – you look fantastic. This is the most attractive you have ever looked. Any girl would be lucky to have you. I stopped at the store and was called sir and I didn’t even care. I was walking on sunshine. You couldn’t possibly bring me down. And I realized that it isn’t about what you think about me. It’s about what I think about me. And I thought I looked handsome.

I don’t know why I feel more comfortable in men’s clothes. It’s the style and the cut and WAY THEY MAKE ME FEEL. But I don’t have to know why. It doesn’t matter why. I don’t think I should’ve been born a man. I wouldn’t want to be a man. Men are gross. I mean, I think it would be fun to have a penis for a little while. I could, like, spell my name and stuff. That would be awesome. But I am a woman. I know I’m a woman. I don’t want to be anything other than who I am. I don’t have to judge myself. I can’t help it if you judge me, but I don’t have to judge myself.  I have the right to be handsome. I have the right to be exactly who my god made me to be. And I have the right to own that shit.