Before posting this piece, I had a thirty-something woman read it. Her reaction was as I feared. “Some people will think you really did this,” she said. Such are the sad and ignorant times in which we live. Sigh. So let me be clear. The account below is fictional. It never happened. Once I did write an article in which I volunteered to fly to Saudi Arabia and test women who may have committed fitna (seduction) with their eyes. That one too I wrote as a spoof, though if any of you have connections to the Saudis, keep me in mind for such a job. I will repost that article for interested readers on my next visit here.
So I was driving the other day through Asheville, North Carolina, when I spotted a women’s fitness center. I swung my Honda Accord into the parking lot, raised a cloud of dust in the gravel parking lot, sought the shade of large maple, switched off the engine, and studied the fitness center.
It was time.
It was time to put liberal Asheville to the test, the city where conservatives abide as quietly as mice living in a house filled with cats. Asheville is the town of the hip, the pierced, the tattooed, and the dreadlocked. (Hey! Aren’t dreadlocks cultural appropriation?). Asheville is San Francisco East but without all the discarded needles and mounds of human waste on the sidewalks. One small example will serve: A restaurant on Merrimon Avenue has pasted a sign on its front door declaring “We serve all races, We serve all genders, We serve transgenders” and so on. This list of pat-my-back virtue signaling rambles on for several lines. (As a writer, I protest this wordy declamation. For heaven’s sakes, just announce what should be obvious: “We serve anyone who has the money to pay the bill.”)
So there I sat in my car, a man about to transform himself into a woman. This alteration required surprisingly little imaginative effort. I lit a cigarette and started puffing out smoke like Betty Davis when she was in a huff. It was a hot day, and I wondered whether I wouldn’t be more comfortable wearing a shift rather than khakis and a shirt. I envisioned myself putting aside a cold, sudsy one in favor of a glass of white wine—no, a spritzer!—with Nora Jones singing in the background. In my imagination, I opted for white sandals instead of my brown leather shoes; I junked my watch for bracelets and a gaudy necklace; I saw myself lounging in a sauna where women were gossiping and laughing instead of the sullen company of the sixty-year-old men who sit hideously starkers in the steam room at the Y.
I was ready.
I opened the door of the car, stepped into the hot day, locked the car, and walked across the parking lot like a woman in a dream. I pushed against the door of the health club and entered a space where I detected the odor of jasmine. Sara Bareilles was singing on the lobby’s stereo. The young woman behind the desk was half-hidden by a bouquet of spring flowers, but popped to her feet when she heard the tinkle of the bells over the door. She was of medium height, dark-haired, and with the tattoo of a rose creeping up her throat. The rings in her eyebrows and the stud in her nose were gold and looked painfully new.
“Yes, sir,” she said. “May I help you?”
“I’d like to purchase a membership, please.”
She smiled. “Sir, this is a fitness center for a woman.”
“I’m a woman,” I said.
“How are you a woman?”
“Because I think I am.”
“I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“Cogito, ergo sum, my dear.”
“Hogeetoe what?”
“Latin. Descartes. I think, therefore I am. Or if you prefer Popeye, I yam what I yam.”
“Popeye?”
“The sailor man.” I resisted singing the bastardized Popeye song to her, the one with bald-headed women, which I loved as a boy. “At any rate, I’d like the tour before signing up.”
“This is a spa and health club for women.”
“And as I just told you, I’m a woman.”
“No, you’re not.”
“How can you tell?”
“You don’t look like a woman. You don’t stand like a woman. You don’t sound like a woman.”
“What does a woman look like? How does a woman stand or sound?”
She stared at me. I decided to clarify.
“Look,” I said. “You seem a little confused, so let me explain. I've eaten salads for the main course in a restaurant." (Three times, max.) "I adored Sex and the City.” (Fingers crossed on that one; I never watched the television show, and only saw the first movie because the woman I was dating at the time was a fan. What a nightmare!) “I played with my sister’s dolls.” (I thought it best to omit the fact that on that single occasion my brother and I had strapped an M-80 to one of her Barbies.) “I am sensitive to others, I hug my friends, and I keep my house clean and tidy. I’ve thought of going to a manicurist for years now, I’m going to start wearing only pink shirts, I envy Gwyneth Paltrow for her beautiful long throat, and I can see myself being seduced by Ellen Degeneres.”
By now the woman behind the desk was definitely getting nervous. She kept looking from me to a panel of buttons behind the counter.
“Sir, those things don’t make you a woman.”
"Not even Ellen?"
She shook her head. "You're not a woman. You know you aren't."
“Today I declare myself female in gender. I am woman, hear me roar, and I want a tour of your facilities. Your shower rooms and sauna are of particular interest. I’m touchy about where I bathe. I like a clean, well-lighted place. Sort of like Hemingway’s waiter, though he of course was speaking of bars and cafes.”
I think it was Hemingway that tipped this young woman into pushing a button on the panel. A voice, scarred by tobacco, deep, and thick with some sort of Eastern European accent said, “Bruno here.”
“Bruno, there’s another one of those guys at the desk. Can you come out?”
“Fifteen seconds, “ Bruno said.
“Thank you,” the girl said, then looked at me. “I’d go if I were you.”
“I thought you were a liberal regarding gender identification. I thought you would understand.”
“I am a liberal!” She faltered. “But you aren’t a woman.”
“Sexist,” I said. “Fascist. Genderist Nazi. Shame on you.”
I turned, and jogged to my car, and was backing up by the time Bruno showed at the door. I confess I could not determine Bruno’s gender. He/she was a hulking, beefy creature dressed all in black with a shaven head and rings in his/her nose, ears, and eyebrows. (If Bruno was male, he had man boobs the size of grape fruits.) He/she shook his/her fist at me and lumbered toward the car. I waved to him/her demurely, and sped away, kicking up gravel and leaving Bruno in a cloud of dust.
Alas, another gender experiment gone up in smoke.
Even worse, the Popeye song ran through my head for the rest of the day.
It’s tough being a social justice warrior, especially for a sixty-something guy who can’t run very fast, but hey, someone’s got to do it.
So there I sat in my car, a man about to transform himself into a woman. This alteration required surprisingly little imaginative effort. I lit a cigarette and started puffing out smoke like Betty Davis when she was in a huff. It was a hot day, and I wondered whether I wouldn’t be more comfortable wearing a shift rather than khakis and a shirt. I envisioned myself putting aside a cold, sudsy one in favor of a glass of white wine—no, a spritzer!—with Nora Jones singing in the background. In my imagination, I opted for white sandals instead of my brown leather shoes; I junked my watch for bracelets and a gaudy necklace; I saw myself lounging in a sauna where women were gossiping and laughing instead of the sullen company of the sixty-year-old men who sit hideously starkers in the steam room at the Y.
I was ready.
I opened the door of the car, stepped into the hot day, locked the car, and walked across the parking lot like a woman in a dream. I pushed against the door of the health club and entered a space where I detected the odor of jasmine. Sara Bareilles was singing on the lobby’s stereo. The young woman behind the desk was half-hidden by a bouquet of spring flowers, but popped to her feet when she heard the tinkle of the bells over the door. She was of medium height, dark-haired, and with the tattoo of a rose creeping up her throat. The rings in her eyebrows and the stud in her nose were gold and looked painfully new.
“Yes, sir,” she said. “May I help you?”
“I’d like to purchase a membership, please.”
She smiled. “Sir, this is a fitness center for a woman.”
“I’m a woman,” I said.
“How are you a woman?”
“Because I think I am.”
“I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“Cogito, ergo sum, my dear.”
“Hogeetoe what?”
“Latin. Descartes. I think, therefore I am. Or if you prefer Popeye, I yam what I yam.”
“Popeye?”
“The sailor man.” I resisted singing the bastardized Popeye song to her, the one with bald-headed women, which I loved as a boy. “At any rate, I’d like the tour before signing up.”
“This is a spa and health club for women.”
“And as I just told you, I’m a woman.”
“No, you’re not.”
“How can you tell?”
“You don’t look like a woman. You don’t stand like a woman. You don’t sound like a woman.”
“What does a woman look like? How does a woman stand or sound?”
She stared at me. I decided to clarify.
“Look,” I said. “You seem a little confused, so let me explain. I've eaten salads for the main course in a restaurant." (Three times, max.) "I adored Sex and the City.” (Fingers crossed on that one; I never watched the television show, and only saw the first movie because the woman I was dating at the time was a fan. What a nightmare!) “I played with my sister’s dolls.” (I thought it best to omit the fact that on that single occasion my brother and I had strapped an M-80 to one of her Barbies.) “I am sensitive to others, I hug my friends, and I keep my house clean and tidy. I’ve thought of going to a manicurist for years now, I’m going to start wearing only pink shirts, I envy Gwyneth Paltrow for her beautiful long throat, and I can see myself being seduced by Ellen Degeneres.”
By now the woman behind the desk was definitely getting nervous. She kept looking from me to a panel of buttons behind the counter.
“Sir, those things don’t make you a woman.”
"Not even Ellen?"
She shook her head. "You're not a woman. You know you aren't."
“Today I declare myself female in gender. I am woman, hear me roar, and I want a tour of your facilities. Your shower rooms and sauna are of particular interest. I’m touchy about where I bathe. I like a clean, well-lighted place. Sort of like Hemingway’s waiter, though he of course was speaking of bars and cafes.”
I think it was Hemingway that tipped this young woman into pushing a button on the panel. A voice, scarred by tobacco, deep, and thick with some sort of Eastern European accent said, “Bruno here.”
“Bruno, there’s another one of those guys at the desk. Can you come out?”
“Fifteen seconds, “ Bruno said.
“Thank you,” the girl said, then looked at me. “I’d go if I were you.”
“I thought you were a liberal regarding gender identification. I thought you would understand.”
“I am a liberal!” She faltered. “But you aren’t a woman.”
“Sexist,” I said. “Fascist. Genderist Nazi. Shame on you.”
I turned, and jogged to my car, and was backing up by the time Bruno showed at the door. I confess I could not determine Bruno’s gender. He/she was a hulking, beefy creature dressed all in black with a shaven head and rings in his/her nose, ears, and eyebrows. (If Bruno was male, he had man boobs the size of grape fruits.) He/she shook his/her fist at me and lumbered toward the car. I waved to him/her demurely, and sped away, kicking up gravel and leaving Bruno in a cloud of dust.
Alas, another gender experiment gone up in smoke.
Even worse, the Popeye song ran through my head for the rest of the day.
It’s tough being a social justice warrior, especially for a sixty-something guy who can’t run very fast, but hey, someone’s got to do it.
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