After dieting my feet for three weeks, I concluded that my feet are never going to fit comfortably into the red and black patent Mary Janes that I bought at Nine West last month.
(Why I thought that they fit ok when I tried them on in the store is a mystery.)
So, during my lunch hour Tuesday, I dashed to the Nine West store in boy mode to exchange the shoes for the next size up.
The saleswoman who sold me the shoes when I was en femme was not in the store; another young saleswoman was holding down the fort.
Now in the not-too-distant past, I would have formulated an elaborate excuse about the shoes.
"My wife asked me to return these and get a larger size."
"I bought these to wear for Halloween, but they were too small, so I'd like to exchange them for a larger size for next Halloween."
"My dog ate my homework."
Instead, I walked up to the saleswoman and told her, "I bought these shoes. They are too small for me and I'd like to exchange them for a pair in size 12."
Without batting an eye, the saleswoman broke the bad news to me: the store only stocks shoes up to size 11, but she could order a pair in size 12 and have them shipped to my home.
In the past, I might have suggested a Plan B, for instance, could I have them delivered to the store and pick them up when they come in? Anything to avoid giving my name and address to a stranger, who might later ring up the troops from Transphobia and send them to my house to decorate my trees with pink toilet paper.
Instead, I handed her my driver's license to copy my name and address to complete the transaction; my shoes should show up at the house in 5 to 7 days.
I really don't care anymore who knows about me.
That doesn't mean I go looking for trouble and tell every Tom, Dick, and Harriet that I wish I was a girl. But if someone I knew came up to me and confronted me about it, I would admit that I am really a woman, who happens to have the body of a man.