I fell into a gender cliche the other day-- headfirst, I might add. Upon seeing an extremely well-built fellow, big and broad-shouldered, I remarked, "Wow, now that's a man."
It's a natural reaction... but how true?
That same week, I was proudly lifting a 50 lb box when a woman irritated me by warning me against it. "You'll hurt yourself with that, get a man to do it," she admonished.
Maybe it's simply context. I don't like my strength being minimized by virtue of my gender. Likewise, the object of my admiration, Mr Muscles, may not like being stereotyped as a big lug.
The fact is, we all start out female. Whether we grow a Mr. Happy or not is purely an afterthought of our chromosomes. So there must be something about women that makes good raw material for everyone. However, that universal truth failed to console me years ago.
When I was little, I wished desperately to be a boy. Even now, I think being a man must be delightful-- having that sexy meat to swing around. But I've gown fond of the eternal and internal mysteries of pink, as well.
In the end, I've come to believe that we're all a big happy mess of everything. That's the only way I can account for my men friends who cry at the movies, my bodybuilder buds with clits, and everyone in between.
Long ago, Nature must have realized something we're still discovering. So when I look at myself in the mirror-- strong and feminine-- I smile. My little engine, like yours, purrs along as one of evolution's first hybrids.
As long as it runs, I can't complain.