Trena Eiden

There’s one thing for which you should be deeply grateful: Only you and God have all the facts about you. I can tell you with great certainty: Gar doesn’t want to know anymore about me than he’s already trying to forget. 

Preface … this is written with me in mind and has no bearings on reality, other than the one that exists inside my head, which we know is empty, so please don’t contact me to say that you’re mad. 

I might be transgender. I like baggy pants, oversized sweatshirts and worn-out tennis shoes, and I hate doing my hair. Really, I might be a guy. Then again, I might be a furry. No foolin’ I might be an actual, real live furry. I have a face, not to mention chin, full of hair or fuzz or fur, and the older I get, the furrier I seem to become. My mustache is beyond compare and a sight to behold. 

The thing is, I don’t know which furry I might be. The dictionary describes it as a person with a strong interest in animals. I’m not sure I have that, but I do know, since people annoy me morning, noon and night, I doubt I can be a dog, man’s best friend and all. Maybe I’m a cat. They don’t give a rip what you think and really, they’re smarter than dogs … ever see eight cats pull a sled through snow? 

I told Gar this morning that it’s a real contrast between most cats and dogs. If you have a dog around, and you take the garbage out, he’ll whine and cry and scratch at the drapes to get a better view of your disappearing figure, like he’ll never see you again. When you come back inside the house, that dog will jump 6 feet in the air and yip, “Holy cow! You were gone like forever, it’s so great to see you again.” 

With a cat, when you leave the house, and step out the entryway, it doesn’t take any notice because it couldn’t care less about you or your life. You can be gone, out of town on a business trip for three months, and when you walk back in the door, the cat might or might not lift it’s head to see who it is, then remark, “Oh it’s only you” and close it’s eyes, bored and disinterested. Truth. And I like cats, so don’t fuss at me. 

Maybe I’m binary. The dictionary describes it as being involved, related to, or composed of two things. That’s about right for me. I’m really pretty cheerful when food is involved, especially bread, butter, cheese, chips and chocolate. Then I’m really cranky when I have to deal with absolutely anything more than once. If I have to call a bank, an insurance company or a business, with the same information they said they fixed the first time, but didn’t, I immediately feel the need to make somebody cry. I always ask for a manager or owner because the poor 20-something receptionist would have done it correctly last time if she’d known how, but is obviously clueless and doesn’t need reminded and/or verbally abused too. So, I’m No. 1, Not that nice and No. 2, Completely not nice. Two things. Binary.

I might be genderfluid and that’s where a gender changes over time. I’d like to be a guy sitting on the sofa sipping a tall iced tea, but then some of the work they do; mixing mud on a drilling rig, pinching fingers fixing a motor grader, digging post holes in 100-degree heat, putting chains on a truck in 2 feet of snow at 40 below just gives me the shivers. Ya, no I don’t want to be a boy.

I thought for sure I was bigender, but is that bi-gender or big-ender? The dictionary describes it as claiming two genders at once. If it’s actually big-ender, my ample rearend might disqualify me. Most men’s tailgates are not that wide.

My kids probably think I’m an agender, a person who doesn’t qualify with any gender. I might be that because I’ve been called a lot of things. A Lot OF Things. So, who knows. 

Actually, I’m probably a pangender; someone who identifies with all genders. That might just be me for reals. I’m a furry-faced, sweatshirt wearing, sticky-up hair, jerky eating, lipstick smacking, pistol packing, purse displaying, pangender, who will eat out of your sweaty palm if there’s Hersheys in it. Honestly, I’m just me, and I’m sorry to report, it’s generally too much for anyone.