RE-MATCH!

Okay, so clearly last week my inner frat-boy lost miserably to my inner feminist. This week, he’d like a rematch.

Translation: Hide your women & tie up the horses! Hurricane Annie is blowin’ into town! (Or perhaps you’d like to hide your horses & tie up your women…either way, I’m good.)

Occasionally, the sleazier side of me slips out through the cracks of my proper façade. It’s not that my normal M.O. is one of pretense; but corporate America, a well-respected reputation, and 25 years of good breeding have created something of a pressure cooker—the perfect environment for a creature like the inner frat-boy to grow. He’s always in there, perfectly content in his cage most of the time, but when someone leaves the door open, he slides out and makes his mark. The good news is he’s such a self-congratulatory entity that the inner feminist always has time to take over while he’s doing his victory dance. She does the damage control, apologizes for his behavior, and then places him back under the heavy weight of the super-ego.

The IFB (Inner Frat Boy) can appear at any time. I was in a wedding a while back. Three-inch black paten-leather heals and a string of pearls could not contain the IFB.

I think he even got a little excited about his new disguise. No one would suspect a meat-head in such an elegant dressing. (I’m going to refrain from making a tacky joke about “stuffing” here, but only because I’m not dressed appropriately. Being skeazy while wearing a camo t-shirt & plaid pajama pants just feels like too much.) The IFB was excited and alive in this get-up, though. And he did what any good frat-boy does at a wedding, he hit on the hot blonde bridesmaid in a completely obnoxious way:

“Oh, you’re an actress? Y’know if you decide to move to New York, I can get you an audition for the part of my girlfriend—I think you’re just right for it.”

Later, when we were dancing (the IFB may be skeazy, but he’s affective), she took off her sash and used it to pull me in closer. Incurable control-freak that I am, I took hold of the sash and we continued dancing close. When we got to the bar, she looked down and realized it was tied properly around her empire waist.

“How did that happen?” She asked, confused.

“Oh,” I said, “I have a habit of dressing beautiful women—wait, scratch that—reverse it.” And then I probably winked at her.

The shocking part of this story (other than the fact that I was completely sober) is that she went for it. This ostensibly straight bridesmaid was completely sold on my brazen charms and ironically packaged inner frat-boy. It has been noted (by the IFB) that his effectiveness is quadrupled when dressed like a lady. Has this effected my manner of dress in every day circumstances? Certainly not. Has it affected my behavior when I find myself forced into formal wear? You betcha. A girl’s gotta make her own fun.

Now, you may be asking yourself: Does the inner frat-boy have any other function? Are there any other dimensions? Of course! All alternative personalities are multi-dimensional. Some aren’t yet fully formed (for instance my inner-Buddhist, calm/collected spirit needs work); but they all have some depth. Anyway, back to the IFB—my older brother was an actual frat-boy (AFB), so I got to see the positive sides up close. He and his friends have gone out on limbs for one another continually, for the past ten years. They have hooked each other up with great jobs, passed on fabulous apartments, and introduced one another to future wives. They really are a fraternity of friends—all drinking games and gross boy-pranks aside.

Yesterday, I went for a walk with a dear friend, another lesbian comedian (the closest thing I have to a frat brother—the gay comedy community is pretty tight here in NYC). She has been involved with a woman who lives on the other side of the world, and they haven’t seen each other in over a year. “I’m nervous,” she confided in me. “What if I don’t remember how to have sex? Like seriously, what if it’s awkward and uncomfortable? I’m so out of practice.”

“Dude,” I said (or rather, my IFB did). “Don’t even worry about it. You don’t forget these things. It’s like riding a dyke...” I glanced at her over-top my sunglasses and flashed a stupid grin.

“You’re a ridiculous individual,” she said, shaking her head. “But you’re funny.” She chuckled despite herself and retreated back into her head, “…riding a dyke,” she muttered, “ridiculous.”

Ridiculous or not, the IFB is capable of calming a friend’s nerves—of comforting her and making her laugh all at once. She’s a good girl to have around.

As part of the development process for my inner-Buddhist calm/collected spirit, I’m trying to embrace all of my alter-egos equally. I’m trying to value them all for their own positive qualities and even accept their flaws. My big brother in the fraternity of gay comedy said to me recently: “You can’t change until you become who you are.” So here’s to embracing the IFB and the inner-feminist equally. Let’s hug it out bitches.