Man, according to my PPO, I feel like a woman

Score one for the Paperwork Reduction Act. I am officially a man again, at least as far as my employer and my healthplan are concerned.

I went over to my workplace's HR office today (Editor's note: HR = Hell's Reach) to try once again to get my mailing address corrected and my new phone number added to my employer's official records. Third time's a charm, apparently. After two previous visits regarding the same matter, the information appears to have sunk in, the changes seem to have taken effect this time.

This communication conundrum came about, in part, because my healthplan provider kept sending me mail to my old address in Maryland, addressed to my new address in Pennsylvania, asking me to notify my new employer that my old address had changed. Now aren't you sorry you asked?

The human resources specialist emailed me later in the day to tell me that my address had been corrected and that I had "been changed from a woman to a man" in my healthplan's records.

At long last, the recognition and social approbation I've been craving for years.

I had forgotten about this part of my paperwork pickle, that when I was last at the doctor's in February, I had to explain that, yes, I was indeed a man, despite what my healthplan provider's records stated, and that, no, I had never been a woman in a previous incarnation, at least as far as I was aware. Thankfully, I didn't have to show my penis to prove my point, because when you've got the flu, it's last thing you feel like putting on display.

A certain amount of gender confusion has tagged alongside of me all cold-nose and puppy-like throughout my life, and I'm not completely sure where it stems from (although I can make a few guesses). It's not as though if you heard my real forename (surprise, it's not Raplicious), you'd get it confused with a that of a woman. It's not gender neutral in the least, although, admittedly in my time, I have heard some pretty masculine names made feminine by application to a woman. There was, for example, a female friend in college named Kevin, who was about as girly-girl as an actual girl can be. And then there's the masculine-to-feminine transgenderization, the opposite scenario when a man is given a more traditional female moniker. No, I'm not referring to all the male Taylors, Tylers, and Madisons out there, god help 'em. I'm specifically talking about a boy named Sue (may Johnny Cash rest in peace).

Nor do I think my appearance is gender-neutral, not in the least actually. I have the requisite amount of body and facial hair (and then some); the necessary gender-specific clothing, cologne, and toiletries (if a great many of all three); and the defining anatomy, both internal and external, to indicate rather conclusively that I am a male of the species. And although it doesn't happen often, I do get hit on by both men and women, which leads me to believe I'm not far off the mark in having a fair amount of all-around, both-teams appeal.

Yet every so often I get a "ma'am" on the phone or in person; a letter addressed to "Ms. Joan X," not "Mr. John X"; a Myers-Briggs test result that says my type is more common among women than men; or a healthcare provider who wonders why my last mammogram or pap smear wasn't included in the medical records I had sent from Texas.

(A digression: I've always thought a good marketing campaign for this type of gynecological exam would be to rename it the Pap's Blue Ribbon Smear and offer a free six-pack to the first 100 participants. Ladies, whaddya say?)

So what gives?

Is it my voice? I think it's generally deep enough, although I do have some of the tell-tale gay lisp about me. There's an interesting theory out there (Freud as interpreted by Richard Isay from Being Homosexual: Gay Men and Their Development, if I remember correctly) that gay men acquire the lisp at an early age in an effort to imitate their mothers and other women in trying to interest and attract men. In other words, gay children intrinsically know from a very early age which side their sexual bread is buttered on and adopt and adapt accordingly. Nature 1, Nurture 0.

Maybe it's a lack of obvious, chest-thumping, sabre-rattling, let's-invade-a-country-this-weekend, aggressive behavior on my part--although some of my friends would disagree on this point. When I once described myself as being occasionally passive-aggressive, like any other Southerner or person of English heritage, my friend Fouchat nodded his head and said, "Yeah, except for the passive part, I can see that." Others 'round the campfire would join him in this opinion, I believe.

I don't drive a fast car with New Jersey or Virginia tags (at all) and weave in and out of traffic (too much). I don't like to tell people what to do (too often). I don't make bold, reckless decisions and never look back (OK, sometimes). And I don't sleep with women (ever). So, in our culture's very narrowly defined sense of manhood and masculinity, some might think I lack a certain oomph in my He-Man.com profile.

Normally, I don't really give a fig about what others think of me, at least in this regard. However, sometimes, not fitting the traditional masculine role comes back to poke me with a stick in the ribcage. Someday, somewhere, some social psychologist is going to do a huge research study of employees, store clerks, and garage mechanics and how they react to and treat gay bosses and customers based on the former's perception of the latter's toughness and masculinity.

I am sure women go through this all the time--if you're not tough enough, you're a pushover; if you're too tough, you're a bitch. You can't win for losing. So who am I to complain?

Still, it is a funny thing to see, people reacting to you negatively and then figuring they can dismiss you altogether based on their perception of your masculinity (and here masculinity = authority). It's even funnier when you get to evaluate their work performance every year or decide whether you'll have your five-hundred-dollars' worth of car repairs done Homophobia Lube or at a kinder, gentler garage down the road. (Funnier for me, not for them.)

I don't help remedy the misperception, though. I make enough jokes in this blog and in life about my gender-neutrality. But I do so, in part, because it's a gay thing.

The UN Peacekeeping Force, Liberace Division, sets up camp in some gay men's psyches because we feel at times that we can relate to women on a certain intellectual or emotional level. No need, then, to be all caveman; we can just relax, kick off our kitten mules, and enjoy a white whine spritzer while we dish the dirt on the testosterone-addicted.

At other times, though, maybe our gender-Switzerlandishness represents another type of camp, the camp that, for whatever reason, thinks there's nothing funnier and more keepin'-it-real than calling one another "girl" (or, better still, "giiiiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrrrrllllllllllllllllllll") or "Miz Thang" or simply greeting a gaggle of ourselves with a "Ladies--and I use the term loosely." That one never fails to make the troops chuckle.

Wherever it stems (cells) from, whatever it means or suggests, all and all, I find I'm a happier person--and receive more positive feedback than not--if I just continue to be who I am and not what a malcontented, shriveled up, poisoning-the-well-with-their-bile few expect me to be. After all, who's life is it anyway? Maybe I'm wrong here, and in five years' time I'll feel very differently about it, but what would I gain by "playing it straight"? Faster service at Wal-Mart? Employees who bow and curtsy? A few more neuroses by play-acting at something I don't feel? The admiration of a few people who knee-jerkingly don't respect me because I "fail" to conform to their very limited view of what it means to be a man--even though many "straight-acting, straight-appearing" men have abandoned this archetype or never embraced in the first place--just doesn't seem worth it. For pity's sake, we're human beings, not walking-talking Marvel Comics.

So, take note, y'all. For the immediate future, I plan to continue to compete as Miss Stockholm in the Swedish Third Way Gender-Bender Scholarship Pageant. And I won't even insist that I win--1st or 2nd Runner Up's just fine with me, 'cause I hear you still get a nice sash, a tiara, and some flowers out of the deal.

All I ask is that on my medical records, you tick the right box (Sex: [X] M not [ ] F)--and please stop calling me "ma'am," or I'll have to kick your ass.