I’m a man. Well, at least on the outside. I actually prefer to think of myself as a boy wearing an adult male body, but that doesn’t bear relevance now. The only reason I’m stating my gender is to clarify that men are fully entitled to be a Girl for a Day (On the Inside).

I’m thirty-five years old, and must admit that I’ve never wished to be a girl, for any length of time. Even as a philosophically-minded individual, the thought of switching genders has never held court. Having to undergo anatomical revolution, the thought of parrying off perverts, and dealing with menstrual cycles sure seems like a lot of effort.

But recently I thought ‘Why not?’ While not actually possible to change myself into a girl for a day, I could think a gender-switch into life, right? Well, easier said than done!

I started my ‘metamorphosis’ the night before. Lying down in bed, I said out loud (but not so loud that my wife could hear) I’m going to dream like a girl. Sleep took over, followed by patterns of candy floss and bears, which may or may not resemble female dream-matter. Upon waking the next morning, I went to the bathroom and almost peed like a man. I stopped just in time, rearranged to a sit-down equivalent, and did justice to my absent second X-chromosome.

Next up was my outfit. I’d normally grab whatever’s closest and approximate to being clean, but I made the effort to accentuate the female stereotype by taking an age to dress. I duly went through each closet item (quietly as to not alert my wife) and weighed up imaginary pros-and-cons for each thing I handled. It was exhausting, and I hated every minute of it.

I was running late for work, so I rushed out the house (in a feminine way) and stepped into the elevator. Pressed the button for the 1st floor and thought what am I doing? The elevator stopped, and a man entered and said hello. I offered a testosterone-bereft ‘Hellloo’ that was all about lack-of-gonads. The man smirked, sighed, and rolled his eyes.

Work. I’d normally chill on my own before class, but I needed to host a meeting that morning. I momentarily thought to defer my experiment to another day, but upon cognizing that most females have far worse to deal with on a daily basis, I ramped up my passion for the cause.

The meeting. I spoke in a high-pitched voice, intermittently flicked a non-existent fringe from my brow, and cried after over-sentimentalizing a contentious topic. One good thing is I’ve never been asked to host another. My friend Chris came to me afterwards and asked if things were OK. I told him to give me some space, only to then mention he looked good in his jeans.

Break time was solace; not only for me, but also for my confused students who’d had to deal with my phony shrill voice and mortifying high-heeled walk all morning. I went to the cafeteria for lunch, and watched a male colleague scope out a sumptuous derriere stood at the front of line. I thought it important to let him know that he was objectifying. I went over to his table and lectured him about equality. He shook his head and said he’d report me if I took drugs at work again.

I had some time off in the afternoon, so I researched feminism. It nearly bored me into a coma. Feeling a tad guilty at my complete lack of empathy, I googled ‘fashion’ next. Ninety percent of what I saw revolved around eunuch-looking men parading around in underwear and coat hangers. Yup, it seemed I was failing at this Girl for a Day (On the Inside) stuff quite miserably.

I went home and took over the dinner reins from my wife. Adopting the slow, meticulous manner she takes when preparing food, I delivered her evening spread an hour-and-a-half later, which she was not thrilled about. Between her subsequent bouts of nagging and complaining, I forced myself to cry. She recoiled at my reaction, and asked what’d happened. I told her that I felt women had been pigeon-holed by patriarchy too long, and that we should rise up as a united force and fight back. She shook her head, took a shower, and went to bed.

In the long silence that followed, I wrote a journal entry, commenting on the bevy of imaginary cats that lived with me. I also made comments about an imaginary husband, and how I wish he could take the time to pleasure my mind, as well as my body. I then took a shower, which under Girl for a Day conditions was very strange. My final act for the day was to ask my sleeping wife (who I’d renamed Bartholomew) for a cuddle. She didn’t take kindly to this, and in no uncertain terms told me to go sleep on the sofa.

Hell, being a Girl for a Day (On the Inside) isn’t easy!

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