Can’t get enough of that Jockey

So I’m boldly forging ahead, deeper into the territory of exclusively wearing men’s clothing. I bought another three pack of boxer briefs (they’re so comfy!) along with cheap white tshirts and A-frames.

I’m also reveling in wearing said undershirts in lieu of a bra. So liberating!

And yet.

During our continuation of Feelings the other night, I mentioned that I’m hard pressed to think up many instances in which I proudly declare my womanhood. I’m quite proud of my membership on the women’s crew team, and will probably be much more likely to give to Radcliffe than to Harvard in the future. But at the same time, it’s in the boathouse that I feel the most uncomfortable sharing these new forays into my gender identity. I’m never going to wear boxer briefs before practice, and I have to wear a bra when I practice. And I’ll never feel comfortable when one of my teammates starts chattering away whilst completely naked, nor will I ever feel compelled to use the group showers.

All this makes me wish just a little that I were on a team more like, say Wellesley’s, which (according to rumor) pretty much sleeps with itself all the time. In all honesty, I started rowing partly because I was convinced I’d find the dykes that way. Instead, I found two other gay girls in my class, one of whom (to my knowledge) remains closeted. I still doubt that any of the underclassmen are lesbians, though I’d be thrilled to be proven wrong.

Of Jockey, clubs, and feelings

I think the white pair fits me more snugly than the black pair, which I’m currently wearing.

Why do I torture myself by going to clubs? There are several things that are certain in life, or at least in my life.

1. I do not approach women in clubs. I have in the past, but various rejections have led me to believe that this is not actually a good strategy.

2. Whenever I see a woman I find attractive or intriguing, it is really only a matter of seconds before I see her put her arm around/dance all up on/make out with another woman.

3. When I go dancing with friends, inevitably they end up dancing with each other more than with me.

4. When I get fed up and sit in a corner watching, sadly, no one thinks I am attractive in that brooding loner sort of a way and decides to sit down and talk to me.

I just feel sad. The conversation on gender identity didn’t really go in the direction I planned–things got a little confrontational and theoretical, including mention of Foucault and some argument about language–and even though we’ve planned another one to get more into feelings, it leaves me feeling… I don’t know. Lacking? Even less sure of myself than I was?

Who am I?

[Girl] asked me, before this began tonight, if I felt uncomfortable in my body. I replied that I don’t. I can remember times from growing up when my breasts annoyed me, and yeah, menstruating sucks, but other than that I’m pretty down with my body. I enjoy strengthening it. I like that my jeans are hanging lower than when I bought them. I like the tired feeling in my triceps from knowing they’ve been used.

There are moments when I think–this is what I was born for. I have that when I row. I used to have it when I wrote, but I’ve lost that a little.

And there are moments when I think–this is what it means to live, to truly be alive.

And there are moments when all I can think about are her arms around me, and I am so fucking alone.

Wherein I become a Jockey poster boi.

The waiting has ended.

My boxer briefs have finally arrived, properly sized, and one pair is currently on my person.

I enjoy them immensely. The crotchal area is an amusement to me, though, since I can’t fill it out properly and have no desire to do so. It’s interesting to have a piece of clothing that otherwise fits delightfully but has a single area of… shall we say… sag.

Howdy, ma’am.

Apparently I’m actually a large man.

This realization comes to me thanks to my recently purchased three pack of Jockey classic boxer briefs, which, alas, are too small for me. I was ordering under the illusion that I was, in fact, a medium sized man, but I was sadly mistaken. There’s a form for returning my goods, but I wonder–can one truly return underwear? I wouldn’t want to receive returned underwear, that’s for sure. But clearly I need to buy a larger pair. For the moment, I’m sitting in my pitiful women’s Jockey underwear, lamenting my sorry state.

Curiously, my order came with a catalogue for–wait for it–bras. This struck me as an odd combination. Did they look at my name rather than my order and assume I needed to know how science could fit my shape? Did they assume I was buying for a male (in)significant other? Or, as one Girlspotter suggested, did they just figure my husband was using my credit card? Curiouser and curiouser.