I must be a certifiable shape shifter. A regular Caterpillar-Butterfly-Caterpillar-Dragon medley of gender, ‘cuz like I told the clerk at Crossroads Trading on Hawthorne Boulevard in Portland and my friends in passing (I laugh when I say it): my gender changes with the seasons.
And maybe just like there is high couture there is high androgyny and that is what I wear during fall and winter seasons when my pants are bootcut jeans or carhartts and my tops are flannel and wool and my jaw is set and my body rejects air, rejects breezy, and skips and giggles if that means I will be seen as a flower. Because flowers are wonderful and necessary for bees but sometimes I am a goshdarned Maple tree without leaves, no frills, no “girl/lady/gal/female/woman”, and I wonder how much F-ing trouble it is for another genderqueer person to not say “I do what cute girls tell me to do” in reference to me.
I wonder how much goddamn work it is to understand chiffon, velvet, silk, and lace can be worn by any gender just like anyone can wear cotton, denim, wool, tuxedos, swim trunks, and Kevlar.
Yes, it does make sense for me to ponder being a girl for Halloween.
I wear what I want and am whatever I am and that is not “girl”.