A FIERCE GIRLISH FROWN

While waiting for the bus this morning I imagined myself as a woman. Not with a view towards gender-shifting, you will understand, but as a different consciousness become flesh under other circumstances. It's a mental exercise. Spending quality time with the speculative soul within.
What would I have been like had I been born a woman?
Oh heck, what if I were younger too?
Barely post doctorate?

I think I should have majored in geology. Something scientific and real, but without too many opinionated men of the oafish persuasion.

I'd probably be short and somewhat scowly, like a pugnacious raccoon. On a day like today I would have left the house wearing a navy-blue skirt, and a sportscoat over an oxford cloth shirt (not a blouse). After a hearty breakfast, and strong coffee. And I would be bitterly resentful of the need to NOT smell like cigars, much as I would have preferred to indulge in a short perfecto. Perhaps an 'Arturo Fuente Hemingway Signature Maduro', with a second cup of coffee.

Dawdle, dawdle, dawdle.

I like skirts; they're more feminine and less butt-revealing than pants, and quite frankly, I hate blue jeans. I need something that clarifies that I am a woman, seeing as I f*cking well refuse to smear make-up all over my face. None of that femmy sh*t for me.

A cigar, slowly smoked while admiring the dust motes dancing in a beam of sunlight, at the kitchen table with the New York Times. Ah, heaven!

The Perfecto vitola: so piss-elegant, but so very very real.


Instead, I'm probably heading toward the weekly meeting with the noodgy cow who heads the department, the one with pictures of little babies in Hello Kitty frames on her desk, and the plastic angel statue.
And those odious suburban women in the front office.
Painted superficial dimwits.

If I had a pet, it would probably be a cat. As an ironic counter point to all those women who have dogs. Especially chihuahua-types, AND also the women who choose big dogs like retrievers or German shepherds, because they desperately want to be taken seriously.
An angry black tomcat named 'Boris'.
Who scratches strangers.
Not cuddly.


The bus to Marin came just as I got to the good part; explaining that eating salad for lunch was a p*ss-poor substitute for real food.
To someone who was actually eating salad.
And feigning enjoyment.


If I were a woman, I might imagine myself as a man.
Or not.




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