Home at last from a long day at work, I enter the claustrophobic warmth of my apartment, extricate my feet from their uncomfortable shoe prison, toss the business casual uniform unceremoniously on the floor, collapse on the couch as Cat urgently kneads my still-churning stomach with her paws. After a few minutes of stolen downtime, I proceed to delve directly into the heart of my alterego, grabbing my laptop and traveling immediately to the blog email account. What’s this message? Looks interesting, it’s entitled “Figured It Out.” Intrigued, I read on:

“I just wanted to tell you Ive figured you out. I know your secret. You are a man pretending to be a young female lawyer. You’ve totally given yourself away so many times, it wasn’t that hard to figure out. I’m not the only one who figured it out either, i found some other blogs and comments on the web saying the same thing. They noticed the same things I did. You talk about action movies, comparing Predator and Alien, and other things like not expecting men to pay for your drinks all the time. Everyone knows women dont watch action movies, or act like that, especially young cute women.

Dont worry, I’m not going to give up your secret or anything, but I thought you might want to know that people are figuring it out, so you might want to be more careful.

V”

V: Thank you so much for your kindness in keeping me informed. Your insights are truly mind-boggling. There’s only one minute problem with your fascinating theory: It’s based on pure unadulterated bullshit.

Yes, I like action movies. I use the word “motherfucker,” often. I know the difference between an I versus a Wing-T offensive formation, and I’ve changed my mind about instant replay at least 40 times. I’ve puked in a public trashcan, then continued drinking. As a child, I played with Optimus Prime instead of Barbie, and I didn’t cry when I shattered my elbow in seventh grade. I openly wept, however, when Ivan Drago killed Apollo Creed. I have a habit of pelting the TV with tortilla chips whenever John Madden misuses words like “resiliency.” I’ll wear the same shirt 2 days in a row if I can get away with it. I’d shell out hundreds to see Oscar De La Hoya get his prettyboy face destroyed by a decent middleweight. I can put away an entire Peter Luger porterhouse for one, complete with creamed spinach and bacon slices. I think Jenna Jameson is a talented girl (though Tera Patrick is hotter). I only drive stick, and I’ve broken 110 in my stepfather’s old sportscar. I frequently rewind the scene in “Anaconda” where John Voight gets regurgitated by the snake, just so I can experience the cinematic moment once again in all its serpent-bile-covered glory. Bill Simmons annoys the living shit out of me, though I’ll admit he knows baseball. I quote Tony Montana whenever appropriate. I think Ashton Kutcher, Justin Timberlake and Keanu Reeves should be shot for crimes against humanity.

I also own 14 different shades of eyeshadow. I order light beer and pink martinis on a regular basis. I prefer Joe’s Jeans on bloated days, since they give a little in the waist. I keep L’Occitane shea butter and Aveeno foaming face wash in my office drawer. I pout when I don’t get my way. I recently purchased a 2006 calendar filled entirely with pictures of frolicking kittens. I’ve watched “Dirty Dancing” approximately 87 times. Last weekend I opened a Victoria’s Secret credit card so I could get the Free Panty coupons. My mother dressed me in Laura Ashley every day in second grade. I own “Like A Virgin” on both CD and cassette. I won’t let Boyfriend use the toilet while I’m in the shower. I know how to knit, though my range is limited to amorphous scarf-like creations. I’m absurdly ticklish just about everywhere. I saw “Irreversible” last week and now can’t walk to Boyfriend’s place at night without experiencing sheer terror of being raped. I wore a truly hideous purple lace dress to my junior prom. I always pop two Extra Strength Tylenol a half hour before bikini waxes. I vacuum regularly and spray my apartment with Vanilla Mist home fragrance. I fear childbirth. I exfoliate once a week, flirt harmlessly with my hairdresser and occasionally treat myself to spa pedicures. And, last I checked, I was also in close possession of a bona fide fully-functional vagina.

Plenty of women I know share these, or equally “genderized” characteristics. Assigning a taste, habit or quirk based exclusively on possession of a penis is a true example of human fatuousness. We are all individuals, not media- and culturally-designated dolls defined the moment our writhing and shrieking bodies are pulled from the womb and wrapped in pink or blue blankets. Gender stereotypes are hopelessly tired, as am I of being endlessly barraged with them and expected to conform. Think what you like V, you’re entitled to your opinion. My only request is that, prior to sending emails such as this, you kindly remove your head from its tight, warm resting place deep within your rectum.

Sincerely,
O