I am perched up high on the balcony of a mildly posh senior apartment complex, eating subgum lo mein in the greatly diffused, overcast sunlight, and yet I can feel my face sun-burning like some pasty slob at the beach.
My mom, Anna, is sitting out here too, bundled up despite the balmy weather, because she has congestive heart failure and therefore terrible circulation. We’re on week three of home hospice care, and she insists on feeling better and better, being stronger and sassier than she has been in weeks, despite the whole hospice thing. She is and always has been, sweetly contrary.
We were talking about gender fluidity a few minutes ago: the conversation began because we were discussing Schitt’s Creek’s David Rose, and wondering how much of a characterization Dan Levy’s portrayal is, or if he’s just playing himself. We both find him charming, and we’ve been bingeing the series in the evenings. He has adorable calves, great timing, and truly awful hair.
Anyhow, Anna’s snoozing, and the wandering topic led me to thinking of a discussion that Xyl0c41n3 and I had here recently, in which she said she thought I was a woman until I mentioned otherwise. Which in turn made me think of online gender analysis text engines, which I recall being a big deal ten years or so ago. They always determined that I was a woman, so I looked one up and pasted in a recent post I did here, to see if I was still a lady, text-wise. Despite the fact that the block of text I pasted in begins, “As a gay man of a certain age...,” the engine determined me to be some 80% female, which is really more than okay. As a formerly pretty androgyne sort, I will let that appeal to my faded sense of vanity, until I next pass a mirror. Anyone else want to try it and have your gender imposed on you, based on ancient blogging algorithms from 2001?
According to “technology”, I am a highly extroverted (90%!) 65-100 year-old woman. I would not want to sit next to me on a bus, if that were the case. I would probably try and get me involved in some pyramid scheme, or talk about my scarf endlessly.
In what passes for actuality, I am a 56 year-old man who isn’t especially rigid about gender roles, and is painfully introverted, with a resentful, suspicious MB classification of INFJ.
Do you even Myers-Briggs? Do you lift? My lo mein is gone, and I am getting antsy. Tell me some mildly compromising shit, already. So withholding, you are.