ANDROGYNOUS

If you work in retail, you will inevitably come to a junction where you have to help a customer who is of an indeterminable sex. This happened to me today, and, after first thinking I could navigate the murky waters of this androgynous sea, I suddenly caught my rudder on some unseen obstacle and tore the stern from my vessel. Maritime metaphors aside, I’ll give it to you straight: I called a “he” a “she.” I think. I’m still a little unclear.

“How can I help you ladies?” I asked. She turned to her child and made a little face, and then looked at me and spoke sternly.

She said they wanted to play golf, but didn’t have “one of those fat clubs–”

“A driver,” the child interjected. I laughed and tried to play off the fact I just called this fat piece of shit a girl.

“Yeah, can we have a driver?” Rat-face asks.

“Sure, but I need to hang onto your driver’s license until you return the club. People have been known to walk out with them.”

“That’s fine, I’ll just write myself a note. Otherwise I’m liable to leave the damn thing here. I’d have to call my boss, it’d be–”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure she’ll remind you!” I say, pointing at the little boy. I instantly felt like the biggest asshole in the entire world. If the kid didn’t have a goofy powder blue snow cap covering a disgusting blonde mop of shoulder length hair, I wouldn’t have made the stupid mistake of assuming this was not a girly looking boy, but a fat ugly girl. There’s such a fine line between girls and boys these days.

Rat-face mom and boy-girl son did not forget to reclaim their belongings once they finished playing golf, but they most certainly lost their sense of belonging in this cruel, cruel world of ours.

Wake up, Zoya.