I'm at this moment mentally girding myself against a trip to the corner boutique. Before this happens, I will assuredly have had no less than three costume changes, sent a half dozen emails to Durham, NC for information and support, and run through a variety of scenarios and escape routes in my mind. Some of which may require red smoke and telekinesis.
The most likely version, however, involves my big brown boots and a deadly combination of waxed floors and slush as I walk through the door. The shopgirl looks at me and three questions flicker across her face:
1. Is she going to steal something (because why else would I be there?)?
2. Is she going to break something?
3. Is she a he?
Three similar questions are on my mind:
1. Is she going to talk to me?
2. Am I going to break something?
3. Should I just make things easier for both of us and pretend I'm a dude.
The rest of the event goes erratically as I try not to sneeze, blush, or snort my contempt, or an embarrassing combination of all three. I resolve myself on buying something, but can't divine the difference between the hair accessories and the undergarments--and I'm not buying the latter. I half tiptoe, half slip my way between the improbable gauntlet of pink, ice cream flavored soaps and the black stare of my perfectly coiffed nemesis. I grab the counter in terror and relief, scatter the handful of chapsticks that I felt I needed to purchase to preserve my dignity, pay the eleven dollars and forty-two cents, and bolt.
We're going to Target.
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