I found out recently that I'm actually a man.  Not only that, I was once a boy too.  According to the Social Security Administration I have been an red blooded American male since 1985.  Before that I guess, the government didn't consider me period.

These days a kid is tagged immediately- that is to say, given a social security number right at birth- but back in the freewheeling 1970's in Maine, there wasn't a rush.  Parents were too busy composting, starting food coops, and reading Thoreau.  You got a card when you needed one.  I mean, for now, let's just weed the garden, shuck some corn,  and can preserves. 

For me, the necessity came when I spent my first seven minutes of fame in a Stephen King movie and thusly began my life as a taxpayer.

Social Security hasn't been easy to convince, by the way, that I'm a Ms.  A phone call, with my most sultry female voice didn't do it.  The operator laughed actually.  On the first trip to the main office in Brooklyn, where a young lady(ostensibly) ahead of me had a scalpel confiscated, I also failed.  Despite my utterly convincing breasts practically falling out of my most feminine summer dress, I didn't have proper documentation.  And though hoisting my tits onto the counter and pressing them against the bullet proof glass made the agent laugh, she won the Mark Twain Award:

"Honey, this is New York.  I've seen some really good work."

I'll be honest, in that moment, facing an in-person rejection of my sex, I started to panic slightly.  My mom is fairly famous for leaving out big details.  For instance, "Oh pumpkin, I'm sure I told you I was married before your father!"  I was too busy hyperventilating then to answer or to laugh now.

Could she have overlooked telling me?  Was there an accident during the circumcision?  Had I been born a true blue tranny and my parents had to make a sexual Sophie's choice?  My dad is Greek, was I the real life version of, MIDDLESEX?  My mom always had said she really wanted a girl first.  Had she been trying, albeit WASPily, to tell me something?  Omigod.  This explains everything about me.  No wonder I only have gay male friends.  I am a gay male.  No wonder I like wigs and to show my boobs in public.  I am a tranny. 

So instead of trusting my mother's insistence of my gender as female, I contacted the state of Maine directly for my birth certificate.  The good friendly folks at bureau of vital records thought my story was totally shelarious.  Who knew bureaucracy had such a sense of humor?

Social Security has since accepted the document as genuine (and my vagina valid), but my sex is still pending with the state of New York.  Stay tuned.