have been asked by readers to post AJ’s entire essay, which has been posted in
consecutive sections over the last five posts, in its entirety and in order. I
am doing that today.
AJ, my non-binary
progeny, has had what you might call “difficulties” coming to terms with being
a boy trapped in a girl’s body and has written about that on this blog. (“Toy
Retreat,” October 8, 2021; “Dinner With Mom and Dad,” December 20, 2021;
“Clothes Make the Man-Child,” January 14, 2022; and “Non-Binary Tennis,” August
31, 2022.) Today AJ continues to guest blog about perhaps the most difficult
part of that journey–his struggle with body image, food, and the lapse in
mental and physical health that made it clear that some critical life decisions
Here is AJ:
My eating disorders began as a child. I was
always an emotional eater and lived out my hedonism via Hostess and Hershey’s
and all that good stuff. I’d always eat as many cookies as the parents would
allow and drank orange juice (aka, “healthy soda”) by the gallons as well as
soda soda whenever I could get my grubby paws on it. Food was one of the places
I could get a hit of tasty dopamine and lose myself at the same time. It was sublime
to come home after school with a big bag from the bodega of a mix of sweet and
savories. Junk food was a friend. I guess I had a killer metabolism at the time
and was also, ahem obliged, to play tennis all the time so my activity battled
all those snackies. Another metabolism booster was that I picked up the lovely
habit of smoking cigarettes somewhere along the way as a teen. Ahhh, another
oral fixation to take me away and out of myself. Sorry, I’m not advocating
smoking but oh man, it was disgustingly amazing.
But then, as much
of the population, I was dropped off at college…and LEFT! Among the very first
things that first-year students are required to figure out—besides where the
bathrooms are—is how they are going to handle their new independence when it
comes to eating and drinking behaviors. I am now a strong advocate for
requiring all entering students to take Nutrition and Eating for Oneself 101. (Oh,
and also, Financial Literacy 101 in which one would learn all about money
management.) It’s so easy and tempting to lose control with Frito-Lay and
Froot Loops around. Realization that one no longer has to eat what they don’t
want to eat is revolutionary, and potentially belt-loosening or gut-busting.
Moreover, vending machines and 7-Elevens present new collegians with
cornucopias of “food” laden with fat, salt, and sugar and processed beyond
recognition. Also, beers can be chugged ad
I, however, being
a nervous wreck, ended up taking the opposite route. I still had the palate of
a little kid and wanted hamburgers with fries and broccoli all the time (at
least the broccoli was healthy). Sauces that weren’t fire engine red like
ketchup or Prego were to be feared. I wasn’t eager to experiment with food when
it was presented. Alternate versions, unfamiliar offerings, or unidentifiable
foods weren’t appetizing. At this New England school, for example, there was a
lot of mystery fish. I had eaten fish sticks and canned tuna fish in my
previous life but that was it (not even the Fillet-O-Fish sandwich at McDonalds…not
that that doesn’t count as mystery fish). Here, on the other hand, was a fish
called “scrod.” Surely that was a joke. What kind of stupid fish, or stupid
anything, is named “scrod”? In any event, I was overwhelmed trying to remember
how to get to class and where to go to the bathroom at any given moment. So,
naturally enough, I stopped eating regularly scheduled meals.
I wasn’t playing
tennis multiple times a week; I wasn’t walking around Brooklyn; I wasn’t doing
anything to keep my muscles intact, so they atrophied. It was a slow process
that I didn’t even notice because I didn’t know atrophy was a thing! I always
had a pretty static body comp so why would it ever change? I also didn’t like
to think or look at my body because as a transgender person, I HATED my body
and never wanted to think or deal with it. So, I just went on smoking and
drinking Coke, which, along with ramen noodles and potato chips, had become my
main source of nutrition (I use the term loosely). You’d think I would have learned
that basic nutrition needed attention…eventually I did when I got so unhealthy
I literally got sick. Yup, I got mononucleosis and not the fun kissing kind;
just the lacking nutrition kind, sigh.
I have graduated.
I’m technically an adult. I’m working. I’m living alone, but I am trying hard
to become a social being…you know, going out with friends and exploring life a
bit. But my relationship with food continued to be a ticking time bomb.
Restaurant food always meant larger portions, alcohol, and fried things. And at
home, well, I never ate an organized plate of food, only a mishmash of whatever
I had around, standing up in the kitchen, arms flailing toward a cabinet or the
fridge door and back again grabbing for more and only stopping when I was
beyond full and tired of eating. I might go to the trouble to cook chicken or
tilapia (surprisingly healthy lean proteins)—while intermittently grazing on
other items—pour ketchup on the protein, eat it and then do the process all
over again because I wanted more, more, more even though I didn’t even think,
know, or care if I was hungry. Veggies
were scarce and fruit was nonexistent. As they tend to do, all those calories
added up, especially since everything seemed to end up doused in ketchup.
due to my Henry VIII-ian ways in food consumption, I easily packed on an
additional 20 pounds. This was not good. Looking at the reflection of myself in
my now too-tight clothes was not a pretty sight. And I say “pretty” because the
snugness of the clothes made me more identifiable as a woman with curves and
soft spots. My one body blessing had been that I didn’t have a womanly woman
figure; I was not curvaceous nor endowed with a big chest. My hips weren’t
noticeable, and my waist was relatively straight up and down like a guy’s. But
with this added weight my womanly figure started to make herself known. Let’s
face it: I was a plump, chonky female…my inner-dude was weeping. I had always liked
being lean and looking as physically male as possible, but all of a sudden, I
was looking doughy, soft, and…feminine.
When finally even
a doctor said that my cholesterol was high and that I was not all that fit, it
seemed time to stop wallowing in misery, candy, and ketchup and to take control
of myself. The second ginormous shock came on the day I went down into plank
position to do a pushup. I went down but couldn’t come back up no matter how I
struggled. I had never not been able
to do a pushup, and being able to do them always signaled self-sufficiency and
masculinity to me. Men were expected to be able to do pushups, even if women
were not. That I had grown too heavy and/or had become too weak to accomplish a
single pushup was a blow to my masculine ego. To find that I couldn’t lift my
weight off the floor made me feel like a floppy, flabby seal.
This new feminine
look was simply not me. I needed my boyish figure back!
Street-ese, my letter for the year became E. E as in “Eating” and E as in
“Exercising.” In my mind now Eating was to be forever deemed E as in “Evil.” And
Exercising became E as in “Extreme.” All effort went into exercise in order to
mold, erase, and punish my body. Given my personality, it wasn’t hard for me to
overdo it. I stopped going out with friends, and instead came home every
evening after work to exercise. Not being able to do that single pushup had
been emotionally distressing. But now I had a physical challenge and a goal to
reach. I felt purposeful and less lost. It took quite a while for me to again
be able to do a full plank pushup, but the build-up process was wonderfully
satisfying. I incrementally increased the goal: do 5; now do 10; ok, do 15; 20;
now do 2 sets of 20.
ramped up, eating had to be curtailed. I didn’t want to feed the hedonist anymore.
She had been eating too much dough
and spending too much of it, too. I wanted to put a stop to my self-indulgent
eating and spending habits. Such hedonistic behavior needed to be punished.
Nothing good had come of it. Pretty soon my obsession with [not] eating and
[not] spending money joined my obsession with working out. So I started
punishing myself on an extreme dieting and budgeting bender while working out
incessantly. I was putting my life in order. Yeah, right.
I’m on a mission
to lose the pounds that have produced this highly unwelcome feminine body.
Excessive Exercising on an Elliptical (E had become the letter of the month…so Sesame Street), but I was making sure
that my daily intake of calories was far less than the ones used to exercise.
The Evil Elliptical had a calorie counter that I kept at a constant display.
(Watts, who cares? Distance…mildly interesting. Nah, calories expended was
where it was at). I wasn’t trying to get fit; I was only trying to shed flab. Another
fun obsession was that I would check the calorie labels on foods, do some math
(then redo it correctly), and ensure that I didn’t eat more than I would expend
in a day.
became obsessed with calculating calories. I was a label looker and Googler of
all foods and their nutrition vs. calorie payout. I collected nutrition label
information like baseball stats. I watched predominantly all food shows, which
was easy thanks to the Food Network, Travel Channel, and Cooking Channel. Food
blogs were also a key escape and a form of foodie voyeurism…come on now, they
call it food porn for a reason! And I was a dirty dirty viewer and drooler. I could
literally be watching Hungry Girl, Lisa Lillien, while being on my iPad looking
at local restaurant dishes on Yelp or looking at one of the many junk food, or
cooking, or rating and tasting food blogs on my iPad. Food porn for the win.
Back to reality, I
had a small stock of food left in my cabinets, but I managed to finish that off
quickly, so I could start with a clean slate. My fridge became pretty much
barren except for milk, condiments, and carrots—bonus: it was nice and tidy and
just the way I liked it.
At the beginning
of this “diet” I still had my wits about me, and I was intent on taking
control. I also sought serious punishment: Punishment for my past bad eating
behavior; punishment for spending too much money; punishment for being in a
woman’s body; punishment for my mind telling me I should be a man. I sought
that serious punishment by walking hours a day and ellipticalling (sure, that’s
a verb now) away as many calories as I could. Working out had the double bonus
of being robotic and zombie-like while also being painful…everything I could
I was feeling in
control-ish, so I ventured back to the grocery store to buy some non-coffee
related items. I went with the directive in mind to buy the “healthiest”—and
cheapest—food I could find. “Healthy” meant low-cost, low-calorie,
non-processed, non-fat, low-sodium, ready-to-eat foods. What does that equal? Canned
vegetables. I had an affinity for cans because of their handy,
portion-controlled rations and tidy uniform containers. Admittedly, they were a
splurge. Canned foods were more costly than a giant sack of dry rice and beans,
but they were so user-friendly and stacked so neatly (labels facing out…labels
always facing out; OCD; OCD; OCD!). Frozen veggies were probably cheaper, but
they were not portion controlled, and
required preparation. Yes, dear reader, defrosting is preparation. No, I wouldn’t heat them on the stove or even
microwave them. Yes, I’d merely set them in the fridge the night before like
thawing meat, or leave them out on my counter all day so they would defrost to
room temp. No, I didn’t want them hot; I actually like room temperature foods. Canned
food fit the bill in all categories.
Eating at work
was an issue. I figured I couldn’t just eat stuff out of a can for lunch
without looking like a super weirdo sociopath. I did have some caloric leeway
for lunch because it was the middle of the day, so I’d have plenty of
opportunity to burn those calories away after work. I had to eat (dang
it) and I was getting progressively hungrier watching coworkers go out and buy
yummy food and then smelling it all around me. At first I let my wallet dictate
my path and sought out the cheapest food that I could buy for the week—like
5-pound bags of tomatoes that I could store in the fridge at work and eat with
mustard throughout the week. I don’t know why I thought that looked “normal.” Somehow eating fresh produce was less
embarrassing than eating canned stuff. Apples continued to be consumed for
snacks. When tomatoes were unattainable, I pre-cooked kabocha squashes or sweet
potatoes (both of which I could buy in bulk) and portioned those out for the
My plan was
working! Those excess pounds started to melt away. My clothing fit differently,
and I felt in control of my body and my life…slightly.
I liked the
direction I was going, so I upped the ante and worked out every free moment I
could. I wanted to look like Brad Pitt in Fight
Club, I just didn’t know how to accomplish that in a healthy way, so I went
with my own version. I was aware that a woman my size and age required a basic
1,600 calorie diet to maintain organ operation and all those basic life
activities like working, typing, talking, walking, and going to the bathroom.
1,600 seemed like a pretty high number to me so I took my intake down to 1,400
and then 1,200. These numbers still seemed high to me, so I took it down to
1,000. On my 1,000 calories-per-day diet, I spent at least 500 calories walking,
another 300 ellipticalling, God knows how many doing pushups.
I never didn’t
eat for a day. I knew fasting was a “bad” thing and would eventually kill my
metabolism, and I didn’t want to be “unhealthy.” I never considered that I was
moving myself into the realm of anorexia because I was always eating something, and anorexics didn’t eat
I soon came to
the realization that the only path to truly not eating was to not buy food with
the intent to not eat it (triple negative word score!). Deeper down the rabbit
hole I went. Pretty soon 1,000 calories a day sounded like a lot. I mean,
1,000, that’s a big number! I was still functioning, wasn’t I? So obviously I
could function on fewer calories. My figure was responding nicely. I was
getting my androgynous body back, but I still had my infernal breasts and tummy
pouch. Needed to cut more calories.
By now my caloric
intake had decreased to maybe 800 calories at best and I was in the beginning
stages of starvation mode. My body began to fight back; I was really hungry!
There’s a cure for that. It’s called binge eating. I started binging on
“healthy” things like jars of tomato sauce or 32 oz. tubs of Greek
yogurt—non-fat, of course. Anytime I got food near me, I would snarf it down like
a desperate dog or a top of the line Dyson vacuum cleaner. I tried to play coy,
but I was just plain friggin’ hungry. I once demolished a block of uncooked
tofu standing in the kitchen, pouring soy sauce over it so that I could pretend
it was sushi. Clearly, I was turning to the dark side. Only it wasn’t yet clear
My “very healthy”
dieting was making me HUNGRY. I needed to be around FOOD. Going to grocery
stores became a secret pastime. I ogled all the food that one could buy. I got
addicted to just being in food’s presence and basking in it. There was so
much…aisles and aisles to peruse and even touch. So illicit. And trust me, it
did not escape me that walking around in grocery stores meant that I was
actually spending calories which made this form of voyeurism doubly attractive.
There were other
motives to going to grocery stores. Food at home was not safe. It was too easy
to eat. But at the store, it was different. In grocery stores there were……samples! Moreover, samples were only
weekend treats since stores would make the most business on those days, but
that was perfect for me because it was a form of portion control right there. I
quickly learned which stores had the best delicacies, so I could easily map out
my weekend rounds.
Then one day I
lost control and ate half a jar of Biscoff spread, many many handfuls of trail
mix, cheese cubes, and finally bread with marinara sauce right in the middle of
one of those stores. I walked out with my head hung in shame and my belly
protruding, but I wanted more! I was afraid of being called out as a weirdo
sample hoarder, but, well, I was a
weirdo sample hoarder!
Even I knew that
I couldn’t keep this up. Grocery stores entered the category of “feared ones.”
I thought about stealing from stores. In my fantasies, I wouldn’t put things in
my pocket, but rather, I would just open boxes and eat stuff in the store and
walk out. I thought/hoped I’d get away with it because I didn’t look homeless or
criminal-like (yes, cuz I looked like a girl…I’m so sexist). I never actually
built up the courage to do it. Not that I’m having a proud moment right now. I
was just too afraid of getting caught. (I was always a fraidy cat about
I decided I
needed to find a more inconspicuous target. And there was the answer: Target.
Shamefacedly, yet electrified, I made trips to Target around the holidays when
candy was on special display because kids (I assume kids) would go and bust
open packages of bulk candies and eat some. I figured if they were already
open, they were fair game because they couldn’t be sold damaged. So, I’d go pilfer
candy. Worse, I’d go to just drive myself more insane because I knew candy was so bad for me and such a devil’s food (mmm, devil’s food cake!). I’d go and literally
stare and pace around an innocent, lone, loose snack-sized KitKat bar that had
been dislodged from its KitKat kolony and engage in a battle with myself about
whether it was ok to pocket this mini Kat for energy and life or would it
destroy me by adding to my stomach wombum bumpum? Control and rational thought
were in short supply. And conveniently, it gave me more reason to hate myself.
Some epic binges
(not stolen but acquired through some legitimate means): I ate an entire jar of
peanut butter; six chocolate croissants and two donuts I found on the street;
an entire tray of Italian cookies; a giant Tupperware full of venison (yes,
venison of all things); an entire box of Russell Stover’s chocolates (duh).
These were not my finest moments. Sometimes I ate leftover food that was
supposed to last for days, and sometimes I ate all of these things with some
chips on the side! I couldn’t even do the math anymore on the number of
calories I consumed during a binge because I went into zombie mode while eating
and lost count of what I ate in the blur of movement from hand to mouth.
Even with the binging, I had lost 35 pounds in
8 months. However, it was becoming clearer that I was losing my mind, my body,
and ummm, my hair. My hair—one of the few bodily aspects of myself that I was
Of course, my
body cried out in other ways to tell me to end its punishment. My nails grew
fragile; I was pasty white; and all of my muscles were breaking down. Though I
still worked out all the time, I never gained any muscle, only lost it. My
joints started cracking. I stopped being able to use the elliptical; it took
too much effort. Most things took too much effort…even thinking. I was getting
light-headed, and my thoughts were muddled and confused—even more so than
usual. I couldn’t make decisions, but I could still muster a fake public smile,
and an inward smile when I felt my
hipbones jutting out.
I was becoming
very, very shaky. I felt rattled physically and mentally. All that joint
clicking and clacking echoed the rattle. I had no energy. After I walked to
work (3.4 miles, but who’s counting?), I would plunk down in my chair and
barely be able to move. Getting up literally started to hurt. My joints were
coming apart. It became a production to walk to someone else’s desk or to the
bathroom. When I returned home and freed myself from my work clothes, I would
wobble and wave around pretending to do my exercises (think: air dancer a.k.a
wacky inflatable waving guys in front of car dealerships), and for dinner eat
my ration of canned veggies or black beans. Sometimes I added ketchup because I
love ketchup and I needed some extra sugar, but I justified ketchup because it
contains lycopene, and I felt more grown up “seasoning” my veggies. I took a
look at myself and saw that my bones were protruding. I was becoming a skeleton,
Bulimia nervosa: An
eating disorder, “mostly in women” (says Merriam Webster) in which excessive
concern with weight and body shape leads to binge eating followed by
compensatory behaviors such as self-induced vomiting or the excessive use of
laxatives of diuretics. According to the Mayo clinic there are two types of
bulimia: purging bulimia where one regularly self-induces vomiting or misuse of
laxatives, diuretics, or enemas after binging, and non-purging bulimia where
one uses other methods to rid oneself of calories and prevent weight gain, such
as fasting, strict dieting, or excessive exercise.
So, I’m now eating
almost nothing. I binge eat, skulk around in grocery stores and steal candy
because I’m HUNGRY. Apparently, my body needs those binges in order to, you
know, make my heart beat and keep my diaphragm moving. After a binge, I don’t eat
anything for a few days. I’ve lost tons of weight, but I am HUNGRY! I no longer
have the energy to exercise away those binge calories. I am angry at my body
because it’s HUNGRY! It’s trying to make me eat, trying to make me more of a
woman; my own body, that bitch! Exercise no longer suffices to balance the
binges. I come up with a new strategy: I start to purge. ME! The one who was
puke-a-phobic throughout my entire life. I must have thrown up when I was a kid
(doesn’t everybody?), which must’ve felt so bad or scared me so much that I
refused ever to do it again. Then as a teenager I threw up three times from
drinking and stopped drinking altogether for ages because everything
surrounding the upchuck process was horrifying. This is the me who now started
to stick my own grubby finger down my own grubby throat.
I literally ate myself
sick. I would just eat and eat and eat and indulge until I hit a threshold, and
then I’d eat more to push myself over the edge and be able to puke. I felt
crazy and out of control while doing it, but there you have it. I wanted to eat
and taste the food, but not add to my woman wombum bumpum, so I turned to
bulimia. As it turned out, throwing up wasn’t all that bad, and it got easier
(finally…something!). Alcohol, I learned, aided the process to an extraordinary
degree because it dulled my senses, further impaired my judgment, and made me
want to puke naturally if I drank too much of it…in fact, I had to puke if I
drank too much. Unfortunately, it was also an appetite enhancer and stimulant.
So I would eat, then purge. It was a vicious merry-go-round, but I knew not to
buy a ticket too often—I didn’t want to become a bulimic for heaven’s sake. Oh,
and I also abused laxatives, but only in moderation! As they say, “everything
I was in complete denial
about my bulimia. I reasoned (ha!) that because I wasn’t puking with regularity
like I thought a bulimic did, I couldn’t possibly be considered bulimic. But I
didn’t want to throw up or have diarrhea all the time. Neither was much fun. I
was in a quandary: I did not want to binge and I did not want to eat. Thus, I
employed my third and final tool: Windex. Inspired by the father from My Big Fat Greek Wedding
who uses Windex as a cure-all, I used it to cure my lack of control around
food. I rendered bingeable foods fresh-scented, sparkly, and inedible. My toxic
condiment was used on sweets or leftovers that I deemed too calorie-laden.
Without the Windex, I was doomed to endure the process of binging and purging,
and that took too much energy—energy I no longer had. Spraying Windex on food
was sacrilege to me because 1) I was wasting a cleaning product, and 2) I was
wasting food when there were starving people in the world. Sometimes after
spraying it, I dumped the food in the toilet and flushed it away. I felt guilty
for that, too, but it was better than eating it, throwing it up in the toilet,
flushing it away. Right?
A new fun game emerged:
Grocery stores provided me a whole world of free buffets once again, but not
from samples anymore. This time it was from their inventory turnover. I hovered
on the pavement outside where stores deposited their garbage. The City is rife
with unwanted or expired items, and I became fixated on them as some sort of
basic instinctual survival skill. I became a character in Hatchet or contestant
except I wasn’t stranded anywhere in the middle of nature, didn’t have to live
off the land or defend myself against predators, and could walk into one of
those grocery stores at any time to buy and eat food. In socioeconomic terms
this mania was completely unwarranted and unnecessary, and I knew it. I should
have recognized that I was starving myself and going slowly mad in the process.
But no. Instead I dabbled in picking stuff out of the garbage. I never ate
garbage…not garbage like from a dish someone else had eaten from. I never
hovered over a street corner garbage can waiting for individuals to discard
bits of sandwich that I could rescue and eat. I did faux foraging. There I was in
my Gap jeans and Urban Outfitters shirt rummaging through tidy bags of
civilized garbage put out by local bakeries or high-end grocery stores. I was a
bougie bandit: I’d slink away with loaves of multigrain baguettes. Baguettes I
was terrified I was going to binge on! Everything was upside down, turned
around, and backwards in my world.
There was a method to my
madness (and it WAS madness): For example, I monitored a certain Citarella
gourmet market because on certain days of the week they would put out their
expired sushi. It was just a day expired, so I took the gamble and ate old tuna
or salmon rolls. They never tasted too funky and I managed not to get sick.
Another triumphant haul was at a Duane Reade that was turning over their
inventory of expensive (and expired) cereal. It was Kashi Go Lean, so this was
a double win because it was supposedly healthy. The Kashi lasted me for months
as I parceled it out at work for lunch. It tasted horrible, which helped me not
binge on it. I was probably poisoning myself because it tasted like chemically
laminated bitter cardboard. Anyway, as I ate my way through it, lunch after
lunch, I was happy and even proud of my resourcefulness, non-wastefulness, and
“normalness.” I was finally not throwing away food, I was eating the food that
was thrown away!
Even I knew that I
needed help. I didn’t want to go to therapy, but I couldn’t stand myself nor
could I continue living this way. Was I trying to kill myself? Passively,
probably. Disappear myself? Yes. I was definitely trying to kill that feminine
beast who kept trying to invade my body. And I did kill part of her because I
had finally attained amenorrhea…let the choir sing! Amenorrhea is the abnormal
absence of a normal monthly menstrual cycle. I had always had very regularly
scheduled and very, uh, robust periods. A while before, I had noticed my
periods getting less and less heavy (curious…) though still regular. But then
they kind of became ghost-periods; like the first days were like the last of my
“normal” periods. Then one magical month…I got NOTHING! What?! Huh?! What’s
going on? (Obviously not pregnant, hahaha!) Then another month. What?! Huh?!
What’s going on?
Honestly, I tried not to
think about it too much for fear that even thinking about would bring it back.
Like saying Voldemort’s name. But this was a magical time! Somehow, even in my
non-lucid non-thinking-straight (always think gay, boys and girls! Haha.) I put
two and two together…I did math! Not eating and not having enough calories to
like, have thick hair and nails, also meant not having enough calories to drop
eggs. Aaaaand done. I could never lay another egg again but I could also,
*sob*, not maintain this. Period.
I knew I needed to get
my shit together if I were to survive. To do this, I knew I had to eat again
like a normal human being. But by doing that was I going to have to let the
beast win? Talk about being between a rock and a hard place…or for me it was
between a tampon and a pad, ugh. I needed help. Although I was out of my mind
from caloric deficit, I was lucky enough to know
that I was out of my mind and to know that I needed help if I were going to
pull myself from the abyss.
I reached out to my best
friend and casually told her that I kinda wanted to die, explaining only that
that was the reason I had been “acting weird.” She came to my rescue by having
her mother (a psychologist) refer me immediately to a psychoanalyst whom she
trusted. Thank you, my friend. And my friend’s mom.
Recovery is another
story. It involved the recognition that the feminine beast didn’t have to reign
victorious. Did I need a tampon or pad again? Yes, but only a couple times, and
things were looking up by then. I knew my paying the pink tax was moments away.
Years have now gone by since I had surgery to remove my feminine “equipment”
(ovaries, uterus, breasts). It has made all the difference…but I’m still kinda