Born hairy, with a genetic blueprint for uncommon female height, and horny-to- distraction until menopause, I never wondered “Why me?” growing up. That’s the thing about earliest childhood, right? Your world is THE world. But as your brain and body develop in contrast with others, you begin to wonder how much control you have over the genes you inherited and how they will shape who you are capable of becoming. Will I ever make it through a meal without dripping or dropping some part of it on my clothing? My late grandfather, also a writer, couldn’t. How about those separated-at-birth babies who find each other later in life, only to discover they share the exact same tics, traits, and quirks? Not to downplay the important influence of socioeconomic status, cultural conditioning, or traumatic life experience, but it was at the endocrinologist’s office that I learned, in my 30s, I was positive for hirsuitism (hairiness), an effect of high testosterone. Not so high that anything needed to be done about it (other than laser hair removal, which I opted for a few years after that).
Today I discovered another study that found a correlation between high testosterone and “infrequent smiling” in women. Oh my god! Yet another lifelong “problem” of mine. My father, may he rest in peace, was fond of idiotically telling me, “A fake smile is better than no smile,” in his attempts to feminize me. Apparently infrequent smiling is a behavior associated with dominance. Resting bitch face, anyone?
In my first Big T post , I mentioned that my name would have been David Lee Tanney had I been born male. I think about that, not so much anymore but there was a time when, following an honest self-assessment, I concluded I would have been a not great guy to date. After that, David became a hypothetical cad in my imagination, a “there but for the grace of god almost went I.” He’s actually right here still, safe inside of me. Would you like to know more about him? David is tall and very good looking. He turns heads, melts hearts, loves the chase. He will buy you dinner, find out what you taste like, sound like in bed. He’s the kind of guy who holds your hand in the waiting room on abortion day then drives you home and tucks you in. And while you’re resting after the procedure, he logs on to chat with someone new. He is certain he’s not an asshole. There’s a way to do it right and he knows what that is. David Lee Tanney is a natural born womanizer, one of the kindest. He cares about his karma. He finds the practice of “ghosting” appalling. His Facebook friend list is full of formers.
In second grade, I made up a game called Kissing Bug. All I recall about it now is that I chased some boys in my class around the sandbox during morning recess. They were the same boys who came to everyone’s birthday parties. You could tell they thought it was fun. They outran me, laughing and looking over their shoulders as I tried to catch up, half-singing, half-shouting “Kissing Bug, Kissing Bug!” By fourth grade, I had socked a few boys—strangers, one of whom, instead of handing me the ball when it rolled away from the dodge ball court, smiled perniciously then sent it flying even farther afield. My sisters remember me socking them once or twice, too. Where did I learn such aggression? I say to all of you who argue that nurture is stronger than nature: What if the two can’t be separated? What if my parent was antisocial and physically aggressive, and she was, because she herself had high testosterone?