on tuesdays, i'm a boy

on being boy, being a girl, and telling cheryl strayed

This essay is unedited. I wrote this two days ago, in response to Cheryl Strayed setting a timer and prompting me: “write about embracing a contradiction”. So I did.

On Tuesdays, I’m a boy. I like to wake up, throw on a loose, soft and crumpled cotton tee-shirt over my otherwise bare, similarly loose chest. I go go go. Do do do. Play in dirt, make a mess, howl and snort and chortle. Fuck others, as in give and poke and prod for their pleasure. Provide — give, baby, give. I might shave my head, or stink up the room, or protect the community. I’ll avoid the laundry, in favor of doing some thing else — “working”.

But on Sundays — oh, on Sundays. Mondays, too — and on Fridays — I’m a woman. I comb my hair with rose hip oil and cycle seeds to aid my menses. I sing to the moon and I weep. I comb my fingers — lithe and dainty — through loosely tangled trussles of the willow trees. I leave offerings to the fae. I bless them; they take my rocks and jewels, and I giggle. I trust they take only what they need, and I give. For I know, surely on my walk home, I’ll be next to receive.

On Wednesdays, I write. Voice sharpened by Mercury and no gender in sight — I simply let the sun burn, the moon shine, and write all the things I lived in the days before.

Some days according to the sun, others a girl, ruled by luna herself. On Saturdays, I take the day off.

It matters to me — this boy, this girl. They’re together in here — proverbial lovers, holding each other, and on for dear life. Sworn by sacred vow to tend to one another for all eternity.

They’re madly in love. They struggle in marriage — their vows need renewing. But they’re made for each other, ultimately — as all true lovers are.