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Blog: Stop The Presses: I Think I Might Be A Woman

(originally written 2/17/12)

My apparent deviation from manhood began in 2007, when the ex and I were still in love (or, at least what I termed to be love). She was flying to Samoa for a month and I was going to see her off at the Mineta Airport.
Now, if I had known what was about to happen could happen, I never would have gone to Mineta. I would have pretended to have a flight to my own homeland (...Kenya?) leaving from SFO at coincidentally the exact same time as hers, fabricating whatever evidence was needed to back it up. (What a great catch I am, right???)
In the hours leading up to the flight, I'd been totally okay with her leaving because her leaving would mean she was not at home keeping the channel turned to Oxygen and Lifetime rather than ESPN.
Or telling me to clean up after myself.

We got to the gate, smooched, and separated. I'd gotten about 15 steps away when I made one of THE worst decisions of my life—I turned back over my shoulder for one last look.

Remember when George Costanza shockingly fell apart when asking Susan to postpone their wedding? This was 10x worse. How bad was it? A stern, Roz Russell-esque security guard sauntered toward me—careful not to get too close in case my pathetic display was contagious—and uttered the following words:
"Sir, you gon' have to cry somewhere else."
With about as much compassion as a jar of sardines.
That's when it all began—but I'm not here to talk about the past. Let us fast-forward to the recent instances of 2011-12.
Instance #1: Moved By The Legend On Wheels
Back in December, MLB Network ran a special outlining the most memorable 75 moments in MLB history. I know this because I watched it.
Towards the end, the countdown landed on Spot #9, if memory serves correct. It was the 1999 All-Star Game at famed Fenway Park in Boston, a perfect setting to honor the living nominees to MLB's All-Century team. All of the game's then-current stars, from Ripken to Sosa to Gwynn to Jeter, etc. stood on the diamond as the ghosts from midsummers' past made their way onto the field, one-by-one.
Then came Ted.
Ted Williams had starred for 20 years on that very field as the Barry Bonds of his era (1939-1960)—no peers on the field and not much love off of it by fans or media. By 1999 he was 80, and only three years away from death. His health was poor and walking onto the field was not an option. He was driven there via electric cart, to a thunderous, lengthy ovation probably louder than all the home ovations during his playing career put together.
The 2011 me is not just a Giants fan, but a baseball fan, and fully understood the significance of the moment. The 1999 me didn't even understand how to make coffee. 
So, yeah, as the current stars paid genuine tribute to the unofficial emperor of retired stars, some tears fell. Hey, I wasn't alone—some of the awestruck major leaguers admitted to tearing up as well.
(A few weeks later, as if that weren't enough, the stupid movie 2012 got me, too—the goodbye scenes between the scientist and his musician dad over the phone. BUT THEIR EYES WEREN'T DRY, EITHER.)
Instance #2: Concerned With How Tackling Feels
As detailed in a previous blog, I was forced by a deeply-ingrained contortion aversion away from watching NFL games (and highlights...and articles...and talk radio) for an entire month following a bad injury to one of its' brethren, too traumatized to even risk hearing about it. Though I eventually mustered enough courage to watch NFL games's been nowhere near the same.
While my buddies surround me, yelling things like "GET HIM!! TAKE HIS ASS DOWN!" and expressing sincere joy over every big hit—as I once did not long ago—I've found myself yelling crap like "DON'T HURT HIM! NOT SO ROUGH!" equally as sincerely, terrified of another gruesome injury.
That's very disturbing. I'm sure my buds feared tight butt compliments and basic rules questions were next. Sorry, guys.
Instance #3: Squandered Potential Happy Meals
There Josie and I are at McDonald's PlayPlace. She is inside playing with a girl named Taylor, whose mother is sitting one bench over. This mom, whose name I never got, is fairly cute, chunky, and around my age. Ordinarily, I woulda been all over this girl laying on my special brand of "charm". But for some reason on this day, I just didn't care. Three different times she tried to initiate conversation with me and I all but ignored her each time.
HER: "Your daughter is very pretty. She could probably win a contest or something."
ME (not even turning head): "Yup...she probably could." (resumes staring outside window)
This is when I really knew something was wrong. Concerned, I tell Alex right away, but her narcissistic explanation helps little. Somewhere inside me, I know the truth—if a chick like that didn't even interest me, I must be becoming a woman. 
Instance #4: Just Get The Goddang Purse and Heels
For the last few weeks, after much quality time spent with the infant children of several friends, I have been unable to suppress a growing, increasingly-baffling urge inside me to have another child. It's not enough anymore to chase Josie up and down grocery aisles and discourage her from leaping off the toilet into the tub—I want to raise a baby from scratch.
Work prevented me from being there for much of Josie's first six months—I barely remember any of it besides the unsolicited wake-up calls—and the idea of getting a second chance with a new kid really appeals to me in an almost-terrifying way. 
I cannot think of any other man I've ever met, or heard of, having similar thoughts.
If it turns out my fears are true and I am indeed now a woman, at least I was somewhat prepared thanks to my buddy's "computer", which recently identified me as a 30-year-old Caucasian female based on my personality traits. There are upsides—no longer facing ridicule for declaring "DAMN, THAT NIGGA IS FINE." whenever Drake comes on-screen, or having to explain away my love for One Life To Live, or feeling shame for enjoying cuddling almost as much as nooky.
On the other hand, now I gotta start remembering not only everything I say, but also everything everyone has ever said to me ever and taking twice as long to shop as I do now.
Hopefully, my cliques can accept these troubling developments.
If not, there's always Kenya...

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