The Great Pretender

One of the issues with PCOS, in my case anyways (I can no more speak for the entire PCOS community than I can speak for all brunettes) is that it is a defeminiser. I don’t know if that’s even a word, but I’m sure you get my drift. I grapple, often, with the concept of my femaleness. There are days when I feel neither male nor female, just human. I admit it’s a little rarer these days since The Boyfriend is making such a point of pointing out the female side.

I find I have little to no common ground with standard female practice in Australian society. I’ve never had my legs waxed commercially, nor have I picked up a brilliant jacket/pair of shoes/pair of jeans off the rack that made me happy. I detest clothes shopping, the three mirror changing rooms are hell, and the variable sizes between brands horrible. The buzz of being a size 16 in Brand A is quickly squashed by being a 20 in Brand B. I had my first, and probably last, massage only a few months ago and only then because of chronic back pain. I do not gym, sauna, spa, dayspa, facial, make over, hair salon or manicure. And GOD no I do not pedicure.

It’s not even purely a matter of weight. One of the fun parts of PCOS is body hair, and in Western Culture the concept of hair on a woman is considered disgusting and wrong. Due to a multi million dollar industry selling everything from laser treatment to disposable razors, women are constantly told through media and social ideals that they need to have a full body wax at least every three hours.

I did have laser treatments over the last couple of years, and so far the results are pretty decent. Most of the work was done on my belly, and very little of the hair has returned, so I’m pleased with that. I stopped when the weight went back on because laying there staring at the ceiling while my stunning laser tech stared at my screamingly white belly was too much for my exceptionally fragile self esteem. The next step was to have been the chest, but I am finding it easier, mostly, to simply continue to wear things that cover me as totally as possible.

Last year I visited a psychologist in order to address some anxiety issues that were pretty much running my life. I’m much better now, thanks for asking, due in part to a string of sessions and a daily dose of lexapro (Depression / anxiety is pretty common in PCOS ladies, to the point where it’s listed in some places as an official symptom). This year I have done things I would not have dreamed of last year, such as the Ghan trip, various driving things and – hello? Chicago next month. So you could say a lot of my anxiety is now gone, and I am much happier for it, but for some reason, the shame about the hair remains. It’s not terribly dark, or long, but to me it’s pretty much a 6 inch shagpile rug.

“Why don’t you wax it/shave it/bleach it/pluck it”. Depilatory creams bring me out in an almost incredible rash, I do pluck the longer or ingrown hairs, I don’t shave it because I hate when the stubble catches my clothes, and I don’t wax it because that also brings me out in a rash, albeit a lesser one. So I cover it up, and i HATE that. I’ve been looking at a lot of BBW sites of recent trying to boost my self esteem and embrace my shape, and what I wouldn’t give to wear some of those clothes. However, I cannot, because they simply don’t cover enough skin.

I love to wear skirts, but I battle with the moronic idea that I don’t deserve to wear them. Skirts are feminine and I am not, does that make sense? So why should I wear them? It makes no sense, even to me, but when I plan to wear a skirt to work, I always end up in jeans. Jeans are safer, unisex and they cover the entire leg. It’s a perfect win.

But tomorrow, damn it, I might just try a skirt.