Let's just get a few things straight before we start. I have never -- nor will I ever -- under any circumstances, wear high-heeled shoes to work. The only reason I would ever wear a dress is if I'm invited to sit at Captain Steubing's table on The Love Boat. No, I won't braid my hair. Panty hose are only good for concealing your identity during a stick up. Yes, I look better with makeup, but I get so much more enjoyment out of those extra 10 minutes of sleep in the morning. If you're planning on inviting me to your wedding, you have two seasons to pick from: spring and winter. I have one pair of nice pants and one fancy top for each.

About the only girly thing I do is carry a purse. How can you not? However, to me, a purse is simply a functional item that should be used until it falls apart. I try to buy a neutral color so it matches all of my tennis shoes. Frankly, the most important reason to carry a purse is so the world won't see your tampons. And unlike men, I don't have a pressing need to have $50 worth of loose change in my pants. As for the wallet in the back pocket, no thanks. My dad slipped on the ice once, and went straight down on his backside. He had a wallet bruise on his left cheek for days.

It was quite apparent early on that I was not going to enjoy trying on prom dresses. My sister had Barbie® -- I had G.I. Joe®. This actually worked out perfectly. Evidently, my sister accidently bought Tramp Barbie, the one who liked to seduce military men. Which, in retrospect, was perfectly understandable since my sister wasn't allowed to have a Ken doll. Mom was afraid it might be anatomically correct.

So, what happened to make me a tomboy? Nature versus nurture. That's really the question. Perhaps my mom ate too much red meat when she was pregnant with me. Who knows? There isn't anything my parents did to steer me in that direction. My dad didn't treat me like the son he always wanted. He's an accountant. We didn't toss the football around out in the backyard. It was very important to him not to break his calculator hand. (In case you were wondering, yes, my dad will be reading this.)

Did my mom chase me around the house with makeup? No. Although I do have an unusual fear of big, poofy brushes. Maybe it was the fact that I had really long hair that my mom used to rip halfway off my head when she brushed it. Tip to mothers: If at any point during brushing hair, your child's head ends up at a right angle to their back, LET GO!

When I was very little, I had the special privilege of being one of the boys. Basically, this meant two things: One, I got picked first during recess and two, no one wanted to call my name during Red Rover. Fear is good. One time, during kickball, I was running down to first base and I just knew I was going to be thrown out. Aggravated, I decided to barrel over the poor, little boy who was playing first. I feel somewhat guilty about that, even though you barely notice his limp anymore.

It gave me a great sense of pride to know that the boys admired how high I could kick a football. They thought the other girls were silly and a little gross. Then one day it happened. Boobs. Almost overnight, I went from being the only girl the boys loved, to being the kind of creepy, masculine girl who could kick a football freakishly high. No boy wants to date you if you can slam his arm through the table during arm wrestling tournaments. It's understandable that boys like to lead during the slow dances. I accept that. I don't allow it, but I accept it.

To this day, I feel my sports career was cut short once I had to put on that first training bra. As for my period, you can keep that nonsense. It amazed me that the other girls were looking forward to getting one. The late bloomers fretted quite a bit. You know what I said to them? "TAKE MINE!! PLEASE!! I'll trade you for your older brother's really cool gym bag."

High school was the worst. Fortunately, I attended a Catholic high school, so we had uniforms. This was the last time I wore a skirt on a regular basis. Every once in awhile, the school had "dress-up" day. This was the day girls got to wear their pretty clothes. Jeans were out, so basically I just called in sick that day. It didn't matter what else I had going on at school that day, if it was dress-up day, I told my dad I had cramps. It's a good thing they didn't have dress-up day every week. Even my dad would have started to wonder why I had my period so much. He is an accountant, after all.

Family photos are lovely. Me in my baseball helmet, me in my football helmet, me in my KISS shirt... Picture it: Christmas, 1973. My sister and I are sitting on Santa's lap at my aunt's house. My sister's wearing a smart, brown pantsuit and there I am in my red, football jersey. I was overjoyed that my mother let me wear a football jersey instead of that itchy blouse she bought to go with the adorable jumper she made. Her family, however, just thought of me as the creepy, masculine girl who could kick a football freakishly high.

Listen, I may not have a little, black party dress or a closet full of purses. The only fancy hair care product I use is shampoo. I go to the shoe store to see what color high top Converse Allstars® they've gotten in. Summer's exciting because that's when the new t-shirts come out. The makeup I bought for the last wedding I went to has probably changed chemically by now and I'll have to call Hazmat to dispose of it.

As far as tomboys go, though, I'm hardly the worst. I rarely ever watch ESPN and I'll only wear sweatpants to the grocery store. When I wear a t-shirt to work, it never says anything silly on it. I have a friend I'll call "Nicole", who wears Cheerios® t-shirts to work and has a closet full of tennis shoes. My tennis shoes are a fashion-statement. Hers are actually good for doing things like jogging and playing tennis.

In the end what does femininity and masculinity really mean? Except for a little plumbing, we start and end our lives very much the same. When we're little, we're all flat chested and hairless. Puberty may come along and make us fork in different directions, but look at us when we get older. After a certain age, women have mustaches and men have saggy breasts. What's the big difference?

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© Beth Wiesemann. No portion of this article may be reproduced without the author's permission.