For me, this is car-shopping weekend. I was in an accident last month and totaled my Accord, and I'm down to the wire for finding a new (used) car.
The butch in me wants 4WD. It doesn't have to be huge--I just want to be able to throw my bike in the back (never mind that I'm not much of a cyclist; I'm nonetheless enamored with the idea), dart up the curvy road to my apartment in the rain without skidding, and maybe strap a kayak on top (never mind that I've only kayaked three times in my entire life). SUVs are fun to drive, but I loathe the SUV arms race (in which we all buy taller cars so that we can see around all the other people who bought taller cars so they could see better). Ah, but the nerd in me... The nerd in me wants a Volvo... perhaps a used S40. Or something with amazingly good gas mileage. Something drool-inducingly safe. Side curtain airbags! High visibility!! Oh yeah, give it to me, baby!! Ahem. So this weekend, my butch side and my nerd side will endeavor to strike a compromise. What'll it be? A Subaru Impreza wagon? A "small" SUV? A RAV-4? A Civic? I'll keep you posted. Meanwhile, what features do *you* think are essential for a butch's ride? A multi-disc changer and sweet sound system? Big cup holders? Roof racks? A Moon roof? Manual transmission?
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I've mentioned before that my dear ex-husband (DXH) and I are good friends. Since he just snagged an *awesome* job, we decided to hit the outlet stores to celebrate (because, yes, that's the kind of crazy-ass, free-wheeling kids we are).
We went to the Nordstrom Rack, where we found some killer shirts at decent prices. Since the cut of shirts ALWAYS varies from one brand to another (more details on this in a later post), it's always good to try things on. I took about 12 shirts into the dressing room; DXH took four. He was directed into a room at the end of the hall, but *I* was stopped by a saleswoman, who asked: "Do you know what shirt size you are?" It was a busy Sunday, and men had been entering and exiting the dressing room unimpeded. If she had redirected me to the women's dressing room, I'd have at least known what she was thinking. But I was so taken aback that I asked her to repeat the question. She did, but it still struck me as a bizarrely idiotic thing to ask someone who was CLEARLY about to try 12 shirts on. I stammered, "Uh, 17-32." OH, I thought as I answered. NOW I get it. She's about to offer to measure my neck. Unnecessary, but I appreciate the thought. I started down the hall when she stopped me again, and asked: "And are those shirts 17s?" "No," I wanted to say. "They're 15s. But I wanted to see if I could rip the collars by buttoning them SUPER TIGHT and then flexing my neck ." WTF? Instead, I said, "Yeah," and continued down the hall in order to snag a room next to DXH, whereupon Rude Woman REDIRECTED me to the first room by the door (presumably because I needed to be watched). If she was trying to intimidate me, she did a damn good job. I HATE being in the dressing room by the door, because it ensures that I will see as MANY men as possible while I'm going out to look in the mirror. Which is exactly what happened, and I got more stares and glares and surprised looks than has occurred since I entered the women's bathroom at a Chinese church (I am tallish and white, and I was wearing a tie--it was not a pleasant scene). As DXH pointed out afterward, it wasn't a locker room; it was a dressing room. Complete with individual, lockable doors. WHY did this woman feel the need to police me (and police me so strangely!)? The whole thing made me super uncomfortable. And then I was angry at myself for being uncomfortable. You can have straight buddies, trans buddies, tall buddies, and small buddies. But you definitely need some butch buddies. There's a unique, comforting tenor to my relationships with my butch friends that I just can't get anywhere else.
See, butch buddies share some cultural commonalities. Other butches know what it's like to be called "sir" at a coffee shop, have experienced the indignity of wearing a bridesmaid's dress, have struggled over whether to wear a tie to a job interview, and have lived through near-flat-top experiences at the local barber shop. It's important to have people with whom you can bond (and laugh) about this kind of stuff. Sure, you're not going to be friends with some chick just because of your shared affinity for Axe deodorant. But if you DON'T have a trusted cadre of butch buds, seek 'em out--they can be useful in a multitude of situations:
Each of my friends fills an important role in my life, but I know I'd feel a peculiar loneliness without butch buddies--one that stems from having a part of yourself that no one else can really "get." |
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