With all this national nonsense about who gets to marry who depending on their gender it's got me to evaluating my own.

Though my husband would tell you that I am all-woman of the femme fatale variety and that, case in point, the night he met me I was surrounded knee-deep in homo sapiens of the male variety (I would submit that we were wildly partying at a remote lakehouse where the ratio of men to women was 15 to 3 and those aforementioned homo sapien specimens would have readily swarmed a three-legged goat, but I digress).

Let me just say, my physical femaleness in this lifetime is quite intact and complies to current standards (though without breast implants, I fall short of that oh-so-mammary-obsessed realm of female perfection).

And yet.

Yet.

There are clear signs that I am nothing more than a man in this body and some might argue (myself included) that this may be my first lifetime as a woman given all the struggle I have had to learn the female laws and language which still confound me from time to time.

NOTE: True, I have cited previous lifetimes as an Irish brood mare with 13+ children, but it's possible that I read about this and absorbed the experience so deeply that I erroneously believed that I had actually lived such a life. Much like the fact that I still believe I was a svelte titian-haired beauty who cruised around in a blue convertible with my two bestest friends as we solved mysteries under the benign supervision of my adoring attorney father. (Yes, if as an 8-year old you read Nancy Drew as religiously as I did, you might believe the same).

So, what would cause me to think I am a man in his first lifetime as a woman?

Allow me to submit:

Exhibit A: Last night (not for the first time, mind you) when T called out to tell me that The Secret Life of Machines was on TV I ran to the living room and sat, like a 10-year old boy in absolute fascination as I watched my hero in an episode I've already seen more than once.

Exhibit B: There is nothing I detest more than housework yet, I cannot tolerate a home that is not immaculate. T is fully apprised that as we work to reduce our expenses the absolute LAST item to be removed from the list (after healthcare, dental visits, milk, bread, telephone service, electric & heating bills, and toilet paper) is the weekly visit from our cleaning woman.

Exhibit C: I work in an engineering/manufacturing company where I report to the CTO and founder of the company and am the only woman in 97% of the meetings I attend/conduct. I've outplayed Wharton wonderboy MBA'ers and have infiltrated the boys' network to the point that if I came into their bathroom to take a piss at the urinal I don't think they'd even notice.

There's only one thing that concerns me, however. Two hottie girls making out is as arousing to me as licking stamps. Cock and the muscular body attached to it is all I want.

God help me, I'm a gay man in a woman's body!

*Sigh of relief*

Good thing there's no laws against people like me getting married.

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