Carla Ann's thoughts on being an oxymoron made me think of something I wrote years ago. Here it is:

WARNING: IF YOU DON'T GET DOONESBURY THEN YOU NEEDN'T BOTHER READING THIS PIECE!

How ironic! While looking for something in my files the other day I found I have been writing about crossdressing more than 10 years now. The problem is, I now realize I am completely unqualified to be a crossdresser, let alone a writer on the subject. Think about it, just what are the qualifications for a crossdresser? Surely you've read a multitude of "true life stories" in the crossdressing magazines. Perhaps if we were to distill all these stories we can come up with a set of qualifications for a true crossdresser. This would produce a sort of a smorgasbord of features, where you can pick one from column A and one from column B until you have a complete dinner, but every true life article has most of the following items in it.

"I knew I was different at 6 months of age but was overwhelmed with guilt and agony because I was the only one so I joined the army to prove I wasn't gay and of course sex had nothing to do with it then I found my sisters and we all went out shopping at the mall but when I went home my wife found me in her dress so there was a nasty divorce so I started boozing but now I'm recovering and accept my femininity and life is going to be just dandy."

I think that covers everything, except maybe gushing about nail polish colors, eye shadow and frilly skirts. So if these are the essential qualifications to be a crossdresser then I'm in deep trouble. Let's look at them one by one.

* I knew I was different / guilt and agony - Nah, I have always had an ego that has never let me down. I knew if I did it there had to be somebody else out there that wanted to do it too, even if I didn't know them. So why feel guilty? It has to be normal to someone.

* I joined the army to prove I'm not gay - Hell, I was number 347 in the draft. Remember I grew up while we were playing policeman in Viet Nam. I quit school and got a job within days of the lottery. I'm not gay either, but feel no need to prove it to anyone.

* Sex had nothing to do with it - Give me a break, I started dressing to feed my adolescent libido and sex had everything to do with it.

* We all went out shopping at the mall - I hate malls. Every blasted one of them is the same, with the same dumb stores selling the same merchandise you can get anywhere else at much lower prices. Tell me, would you really to be associated with someone who would drop $1.25 for one of those soft pretzels? With mustard? Sometimes I think that crossdressing couldn't exist without malls. I really can't recall a story where a crossdresser got prettied up and went anywhere else. Concerts - you have to sit too close to some stranger. Public parks, better but there's a lot of open territory to cross and too many sharp eyed kids. The mall is just great for impersonal semi-interaction, but I'll buy my dresses elsewhere, thank you.

* My wife found me and there was a nasty divorce - Sorry, her dresses wouldn't fit me and I told her when the time came. She just thought I was a bit more weird than before and made me a couple of dresses that did fit. Even though we are getting a divorce it's amicable and the crossdressing has no part in it.

* I started drinking, etc. - I'm a teetotaler and always have been. As far as I can tell I never grew up and that stuff is for adults. I prefer reality straight and not filtered through a chemical haze.

* I accept my femininity and life is going to be just dandy - Strangely enough I really don't feel feminine. Those feelings in me that might be called feminine are just part of me. There is no woman within as far as I can tell, but Lord knows there's enough of me to have a few of them in there with pounds to spare. I simply like to wear the clothes.

So I guess that's it, I have to disqualify myself as a crossdresser. What sort of ceremony shall we use? Perhaps the Crossdresser General will approach me as I stand before the ranks of my former sisters and, with drums solemnly beating in the background, rip off my shoulder pads, strip the pink bow from my bra and the lace from my panties then send me away in disgrace to wear black oxfords for the rest of my life. We could hold a formal tearing down of my clothes closet, where it and its contents are burned and the ashes scattered to the four winds. I don't know, perhaps if I repent and go to the mall to revel in my guilt I can be saved.

But I doubt it.