My Trans Tent
Let’s Just Add to the Confusion, Shall We?
First, there was the Man Cave.
A sacred space where grown-up versions of childhood members of the fictitious “He-Man Woman Hater’s Club” from the “Little Rascals” could watch football and spill salsa on the fronts of their shirts without anyone rushing over with a Tide Pen to ruin the moment.
They decorated their spaces with car parts and diamond plate, team colors and big screen TVs. There might be a bar. Perhaps even a girlie calendar (if the little lady said OK, that is). Many a garage or basement was converted, in whole or in part, to allow the man of the house a space of his own. And the best part was, that if nobody felt like talking, that was completely fine.
With the rise of the service economy, the “home workshop,” along with the skills to use it, which once filled the masculine outlet void, began to fade away. So the Man Cave, like Superman emerging from the phone booth (the what?), appeared, stripped off his Brooks Bros suit, and saved the day. And man was happy. And man’s buddies were happy. And all was well.
Except Woman. Woman wanted her space, too. Seems fair to me.
Enter the She Shed.
She Shed! All right, it’s a funny name. I can’t help it. Now, I don’t claim to know what goes on in anything that can be called a She Shed. Even in my “past life,” this isn’t somewhere I would have hung out. Yeah, not gonna happen. I can only imagine what it’s like. So, with that fully disclosed, here is what I see:
It’s frilly, fluffy, and fanciful; probably pink or yellow; and there are a lot of throw pillows. It has windows with “window treatments” (never “drapes,” how plebeian!). There are bins or shelves, each neatly labeled, housing all the supplies needed for scrapbooking and other stress-relieving mommy projects.
But most importantly, as I understand, is the little stockpile of disposable, plastic party stemware and a few boxes of wine, so that when the girls visit, there will be adult beverages for the important discussions. And, oh, there are so many things to talk about!
Like that weird family that just moved in down the street, and whether or not the school librarian is really having a fling with that basketball coach… you know, the one with the dad bod…
Ok, I know what you’re thinking. “Damn, he is being SO cliché! With BOTH of these descriptions.” Well, I agree. Yes, I am. There is a reason for that, though. At least, it makes sense to me, anyway. Let me explain, and tell me what you think, ok?
For the first fifty years of my life, my male brain, which was overriding the rest of my genetics, resided in a biologically female body. I say “biologically” because I was never any kind of typical female (thank you, brain). I never wore makeup or dresses, no heels; I didn’t even carry a purse at any time in my life.
Nevertheless, I fell into the “F” category of the archaic, binary, pre-21st century gender scale of only “M” or “F” based on this body. This cursed body that the rest of the world used to determine who I was and what group I belonged in.
This set of circumstances only allowed me the following: to be excluded from Man Caves because I was “not a man,” and avoid She Sheds because I wanted nothing to do with them. OK. Guess I’ll stay in my room. That’s just fine. That’s where all my stuff is anyway.
So, now I have transitioned.
And I have a completely different set of circumstances, right? Well, kind of.
Yes, today, I am a man (Ha! I’ve always wanted to say that). Sure, I could hang out in somebody’s Man Cave and be pretty comfortable. And I would welcome not having to talk if I didn’t feel like it. Actually, this sounds exactly like my barber shop. There is a sports mural on the wall, a pool table in the middle of it, and a tattoo shop in the back. Take THAT, Supercuts!
As cool as the Man Cave sounds, I’m not a big sports fan, to be honest, and I don’t drink either. So, I might not be such fun company. And as for the She Shed, I still have no interest in scrapbooking, gossip, and wine, so the She Shed is still out.
But I think I have an idea for those of us who have walked a mile in both silky sandals and work boots. I say, to hell with it, let’s just make our own getaway space! And I think we should call it the “Trans Tent.” It won’t matter what’s in it or how it’s decorated, because everything is allowed and so is everybody. How does that sound?
I’m sure it’ll never catch on as the “next big thing,” but at least it gives us one less decision to have to make that is split up by gender, although most of us would likely gravitate to the gender that we identify with as we do for pretty much everything else. But it’s just another example of how our world is divided into “she” and “he.”
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a pizza on the way to my Trans Tent, where I plan to hang some new treatments on the little window next to my Marshall stack before I crank it up to eleven and blow my neighbor’s doors off.
