For the first time in a long time I found myself thrilled to spend a day as a guy.

I’d almost forgotten how wonderful that can be.

So much so, that when I was doing some writing a month or so ago, I had more than a little difficulty finding any reason that truly resonated inside as to why a person would want to be a guy.

But manhood can be quite a rush.  A powerful feeling and a feeling of power.  A feeling of strength and control and competence in a way that’s completely different from the feminine versions of those things. (This is an astounding contrast with the feelings I expressed in this post from last summer.)

If I had to find a metaphor, it would be, um… shoes.  Masculine shoes and feminine shoes.  Oxfords and high heels.

The heels allow me to walk from here to there, but slowly and carefully.  They put me in touch with my balance and the way my body moves, making me much more aware of myself.

Oxfords are wide and sturdy, giving me a ‘firma’ grip on terra.  I walk with purpose and speed and no one can push me off my straight-line path from where I am to where I want to go.

As a woman, I tend to influence; as a man, I tend to direct.

There is a willingness to confront, a moderate aggressiveness and a benign arrogance that emerges in my best masculine self.  (…and, I must add, a certain ease that comes from being the person I have been since childhood).