I don’t know what to wear today.
Sometimes I think about wearing a dress, long and flowing and covered with flowers. Wisterias, perhaps, to match my nails. Or lavender, or purple hyacinths.
But then a voice inside says: “What a joke. You’re a joke. You don’t have the body for a dress like that. You’re much too round, and your shoulders too broad, and the part in the front would sag because you have no breasts. You wouldn’t be beautiful like that, you would be a parody of beauty.”
So I don’t wear a dress, long and flowing and covered with flowers.
And then a voice inside says: “Why are you ashamed? It’s just a dress. You’ve seen other people with male bodies wearing dresses, and they look good. They have shoulders that are broad, and they’re round, and the part in front doesn’t really sag even though they have no breasts. They’re not a parody of beauty.”
So maybe I don’t really want to wear a dress, long and flowing and covered with flowers.
To which a voice inside says: “You’re thinking too much about this. It’s just clothing. If you don’t want to stand out, then just wear what you’re expected to wear, which is boring and manly and covers your body just as well as a dress would. Then people won’t stare at you and wonder what sort of creep you are and put their arms around their children’s shoulders just in case you might come near.”
In truth, I want to wear a dress, long and flowing and covered with flowers.
So a voice inside reminds me: “But that comes with me, reminding you every moment you’re wearing it that everyone is staring and thinking you’re a freak. Even when you’re alone, I’ll ask you why you can’t just be normal and wear normal clothes like a normal person, by which I mean a normal man.”
And how I wish I could be a normal man.
And how I wish I could wear a dress, long and flowing and covered with flowers, without these voices mocking me.
But I can’t have either, and so I sit and fret.
And I still don’t know what to wear today.