Yes I Am Female, Shopping for Funky Shoes, and Men in the Women’s Locker Room

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Big meaty man hands, but what can I do?

I am not a typical female, but I never claimed to be typical.  I generally get along better with men than I do with women, because I tend not to be weepy and emotional like most women.  I also get into “manly” things like cars and heavy metal/hard rock music.   I’m more like one of the guys in a lot of ways- but I’m far from butch.  (Yes, I am very much a biological and a straight female, should anyone even think to wonder.)

In spite of my mostly logical and practical self, I do have a weakness that is well known among women.  I love shoes.  I have over 100 pairs of shoes  (that probably shouldn’t be considered a bragging point) and I have some pretty funky ones.  Sunday I was out with Steve-o as he had pretty much trashed his one regular pair of shoes, a rather distressed pair of DCs.  He had decided he just had to have a pair of the new Nike Airmax shoes but he wanted them in sort of a (ha-ha) conservative color.  He does not like bright colors and bold patterns the way that I do.

So dragging me into a shoe store is generally not a good idea, because I will find the one over-the-top shoe style, and they will inevitably have it in a size 7.  Even if they don’t, I will find a way to order it in a size 7 if I want it bad enough.

While Steve-o is mulling over the various black shoes in his size (and really having a hard time finding an Airmax shoe in his size that wasn’t neon green and/or pink or rainbow colored) I spied the ultimate pair of Nike Shox.

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Wanna get ’em.  Gotta have ’em.  They are on the way.

As Steve-o decided he wanted the shoes he tried on at the other store, I thought I would behave myself and not buy anything.  I didn’t- then.  I ordered them yesterday online.

He ended up with black and orange Airmax shoes.

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Similar to these- fairly dude friendly.

I saw a protest on Facebook (and when isn’t there a protest on Facebook) against some health club called Planet Fitness.  Apparently men are allowed in the women’s locker room if they “identify” as women- even if they have a sausage and two meatballs. Okay… and if I “identify” as Marilyn Monroe- or Marilyn Manson should I want to be catty- does that make it so?  If my black cat Jezebel “identifies” as a dog, does that make her one?

Planet Fitness is committed to creating a non-intimidating, welcoming environment for our members. Our gender identity non-discrimination policy states that members and guests may use all gym facilities based on their sincere self-reported gender identity.

WTF- piece of politically correct drivel?!

As a woman who is really not into strange people getting off on staring at me in varying states of undress, and I am certainly not into unauthorized people touching me- male or female, this joint sounds like a place for women to avoid.

Unless of course, I want to pretend I “identify as a man,” so I can go on in the men’s locker room and enjoy the sausage show.

I bet the boys would really enjoy my old cougar ass checking out the buff young studs.  I bet that policy would change with the quickness.

As far as locker rooms go I am all about the modesty factor.  I don’t want anyone gazing at my train wreck of a body- especially women because to me that’s ultra mega creepy- so I get dressed in the cubby behind the curtain.  That way it really doesn’t matter who “identifies” as what. They can “identify” as a 1993 Ford Escort for all I care as long as I’m left out of it.  I “identify” as a woman who doesn’t want strange people -male or female- looking at my nakedness, and is against strange people-male or female- touching me.  See how easy that is?

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Here’s my latest cross stitch work in progress.  Yes, it is relevant!

I Think I Saw a Ghost, Some Enchanting Suppositions (Not to Be Confused with Suppositories)

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What are the odds of encountering one’s best friend from high school (who I’ve not seen in at least 10 and more like 12 years) in a Certified station/ Subway on the way home?  Probably dismal, especially considering the only reasons I stopped there were a.) because I had to take a wicked crap, and b.) Jerry had wanted me to bring him a specific footlong from Subway, and I figured I’d combine errands.

I am really crappy at recognizing people, (even people I see all the time, I might remember the face but not place the name) and I am not at all surprised she had to call me out.  Then again, I see people who I think I recognize all the time- who in reality either I don’t know them from Adam’s housecat and/or they don’t know me from Adam’s housecat either.  So I make bloody sure I know who I’m talking with before I assume anything.  Most people who knew me in high school would probably not recognize me now since I did away with the Big 80’s hair, but yesterday I was probably even less distinguishable since I was wearing the big black rimmed cat eye glasses (the ones in my avatar pic) and a hat.

When I did finally affirm to myself who she was, I swore I had seen a ghost.  And I don’t believe in that stuff.

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But people who know you still know you.  Even when time has not been kind to either of us.  There are incidents in my past that I would rather leave there, and revisiting old friends also means reopening old wounds.  I’m not saying all my memories of back in the day were bad.  Some were funny. Some were difficult.  There was a lot of partying. I stopped binge drinking many, many years ago- 1993 to be more or less exact- so that sort of thing doesn’t really have any charm for me now.  I’ve moved into a different sphere than most of my old friends.  I doubt if we have much in common, but then again, I don’t have much in common with too many people.

I know that my friend has had problems with drinking and addiction on and off, as well as myriad health concerns, which makes keeping in touch even more difficult.  She has been used and abused by men.  She has spent most of her life painfully poor.  I don’t say that as a value judgment, because I could have gone down those paths just as easily.  The wear and tear just looks different.

I almost felt guilty.  I’m not a wealthy woman by any stretch, but here I am with my late model car and smart phone, and she’s asking me if I know anyone with a cheap, crappy used car because she’s been without a car for six months.  Her youngest son is in trouble and has been in and out of the joint for stealing her credit card and for other things.  She’s living in a redneck trailer park.   It could be worse, but it could be a lot better, too.

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I can’t think this could be even remotely aesthetically pleasing. Bubba pissin’ out the trailer door at 3 AM…

What can I do to help?  I wonder.  Would it be condescending to offer what scant help I might think I can give, because I know she is the type to be fiercely independent?

At least we did exchange phone numbers, and maybe I’ll have the courage to call.

Maybe I’m afraid that in getting back in touch with old friends I would be tempted to go back to my old ways- hot boxing cigarettes and getting butt drunk- but I highly doubt it.  Perhaps I just don’t like being reminded of my own mortality yet again, and I don’t like facing the reality that there is never really a way to get back home.  The spheres are forever changed.

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Why is it that some stupid dude getting nutted, especially in a stupid way, is ALWAYS funny?

There are a number of TV shows that seem to capitalize on traumatized testicles as entertainment.  I can’t say I know why it’s funny, but it always is.  Maybe it’s funnier to me because I don’t have nuts.

I think the biggest temptation for me when I meet up with old friends is to get embroiled in the details of their lives again and to make myself too available.  It’s one thing to shoot the shit and hang out with someone from time to time, but quite another to become so caught up in trying to help someone else that I get caught off balance and get my priorities screwed up.  When is it appropriate to be a friend and when does being a friend become being taken advantage of?  Back in the day I provided everything from transportation to cigarettes to even clothes and money at times for my friends, (and they kept me from getting my ass kicked) but I’m not in a place where I can readily do that now.

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I think my first endeavor at subversive cross stitch went rather well.

I just have to mount it in the frame.

Speaking of cats, we are probably soon going to be back at four cats.  The cat rescue people managed to capture the three legged all white cat that has been living on the body shop lot.  I thought it was a male, but it’s a female and she’s recovering from being spayed.  Jerry calls her Tripod (not a terribly nice name) because she’s missing most of her right rear leg.  That cat has been missing most of her leg since she was a very small kitten.

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  I have had a few all black cats. I’ve never had an all white cat. I’ve also never had a cat missing a leg.

It’s going to be interesting.