Confessions of a Wannabe Butch

I am butch. I am. I swear I am. Deep down inside, there is a big, scary, ball bat wielding manly-woman. I swear there is. Unfortunately, on the outside, she gets to wear a skirt and ruffled blouse.

Did I choose this? No I didn’t.

Post-modernists would call me fag. I really think that word is for girls like me. Not because we want to be gay men, but because when we try to be masculine, that’s the closest we’ll ever get. We look like a piece of chicken, dolled up for the club.

Never you mind that I intentionally disregarded makeup. I look like I have on eyeliner anyways. Long lashes, see. Can I help that I have an hour glass figure that flatters in every outfit? That I can’t get my J-lo to get any smaller no matter what I do? (I am half tempted to shave it off….I swear. Get me a knife. We can do it. I have some whisky in the garage.)

It’s a funny conundrum. I am not sure how many girls deal with it. That when I go to a barbecue I would rather hang out with the girls by the fire that chat with the ones swapping recipes over the kids? I’d rather have a beer than a martini? I dunno.

I recently made an attempt to be a good girl. Dyed my hair red, highlighted it blonde and went “perky” at the office. Ugh. Torture upon torture. How do you tell your boss that the easy listening channel piped through the office pa is enough to make you want to run screaming for the hills. That life (and work) would be a little better with a bit of Nirvana, Offspring or (dare I say it?) Rage Against the Machine. How do you tell them that you are ‘not a pretty girl’ as Ani would say, and you don’t want help carrying books, or opening doors.

Anyway. Gave up on the red hair. Went back to black. Immediately went to have Mexican for dinner. The waiter asks me if my hair is naturally black…haha. Proclaims it ‘beautiful’. Gag. I swear. I want to buzz it off again. But that does me no good. People assumed I was a cancer patient.

“I did this voluntarily…no, really….”

Sad thing is butch, like sexy, is a state of mind. And I can’t look in the mirror and feel like I can kick ass. I can’t. I wish I could. Every once in a while I will sneak out a fedora, turn the mirror backwards and put on a tie. I’ll turn up my Sinatra CD and lip synch to Old Blue Eyes. Got caught by the girlfriend. She said it was “cute.”

Someone go get me a Liza Minelli recording. I give up.