[19] Tournelle du Soleil (Patreon)

As the costumers zip around with pins, pens, and scissors, I realize with a maniacal dread that I've never felt this particular and terrible type of self-consciousness.

What's social protocol in this situation!?

My body looks like what it looks like now, and I don't feel any shame about it - kind of the opposite actually. But that doesn't mean I'm not aware that cisgender people in the room might not (a) be aware that I don't have the factory settings when it comes to the genitals department anymore, and (b) nobody likes being surprised by anybody else's genitals, in any context. 

They all knew I was non-binary. In the costume measurements I'd given before arriving they'd all indicated they understood that I didn't have breasts. But the lower half of the costume was also clearly constructed in a way where it was evident that they were expecting me to arrive with Option A genitals (a vulva) and not Option B (a penis).

Fair enough, I thought. Why would they know? How would they know? It's not like it's appropriate for them to ask you if you're on hormones, even in the unlikely event one of them knew what testosterone does do certain parts of the body ...

But do you tell the nice strangers that on the spectrum of external genitalia you're edging towards 'little cherub on the roof of the Sistine Chapel' and away from 'Mattel doll', or ...?

Maybe if you just stand really, really still they won't notice anything.

Wait. 

Nope. 

You're doing contortion in this costume. Your crotch is literally on full display, like, more than half the time.

God damn it.

My eyes flit back and forth between Genevieve and Anton, who are definitely not seeing what I’m seeing. 

Yet, my mind adds ominously.

Their entire attention is focused on the small of my back now. To them,  I’m little more than a mannequin filling out the carefully constructed costume they’re applying their considerable collective expertise to to tweak and refine even further.

Please let them almost be done, please let them almost be done…

I close my eyes and focus on my breath, resisting the urge to nearly squirm from the uncomfortably heightened awareness washing over me at this precise moment. My mind spins off, trying its best to distract itself from the matter at hand.

Why is it that we, as a society, are fine with men having bulges in the crotches of their pants (dare I say, preoccupied with it? See: David Bowie in LABYRINTH) but women are mysteriously supposed to have crotches that look perfectly smooth and flat, like a toy or doll, and never, ever, under any circumstances, have that most shameful and mockable of wardrobe faux-pas' known as (melodramatic gasp) a camel toe? Even as we simultaneously objectify and fetishize those body parts? That's some bullshit right there–

“Okay you can step out,” Anton says.

Thank god. He unhooks the neck clasp for me. “Tomorrow Mindy will be here and will make more adjustments with this one.”

“Okay, great!” I say, painting my words with an easy cheerfulness that does not match my current internal state in any way. Anton pulls the curtain across. I begin to peel myself out of the swimsuit.

Deep breaths, I tell myself. It’s your body. This is what your body looks like. It's just a body. These are literally some of the best costumers in the world. These are professionals. You can just tell them what you need …

But that’s literally the problem. This isn’t a conversation I know how to have with a bunch of new coworkers –strangers, at the moment. It's certainly not a bridge I anticipated having to cross during my first time working for one of the most prestigious circus companies in the world.

Let that be tomorrow-Ess’s problem, says the Pragmatist. 

I pull one pant leg back on after the other.

The Idealist jumps back on board: You don’t have time to dwell on this right now. Stay positive, stay focused.

I pull the curtain back aside and give everyone an easy smile. “Thanks so much,” I say as I hand the swimsuit back to Genevieve. She begins carefully hanging it back up on a plastic hanger.

“We’re all done here now,” Anton says. “It’s time to go to lunch, I think.”

“Great,” I say, shouldering my backpack.

I dutifully follow the costume team out of the dressing room, casting one final glance back at the garment racks as I go. A liquid-like sheen dances across the swimsuit, silver appliques catching the overhead lights as it swings gently on its hanger at the end of the rack.

I make myself stand up a little taller, smooth the worry from my face to smooth the worry from my mind along the way, and snap the lights off behind me.

The heavy plastic case protecting my temporary access card swings  across the front of my chest as I slide my second arm through the other strap. 

Right – remember: you belong here today. Your body belongs here today. You’ve been hired for this job. You’ll figure out how to say what you need … later. But for now –  you’ve got the new tower to contend with.

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Your next instalment of Tournelle du Soleil lands on Monday at 7am EST / 1pm CEST. Have a strange and wonderful weekend! XO Ess