In order to access certain sites or groups online, you must register. I don’t have a problem with that. But then they demand that you provide a dossier of yourself, at minimum your sex and your age. “Are you a Mr., a Mrs., or a Ms.?” Why should it matter to them? Are they thinking of buying me a drink?
The age bit is already personal as it is, but I really must protest being categorized by my sex.
Like there are only two kinds of people on the planet. Sheesh.
Yeah, yeah, I realize it’s for market-research purposes, but — dammit, if I were a typical whatever, it probably wouldn’t matter. But I’m not ‘typical’ for my sex.
“Rites of Spring” india ink/paper © Ryl Mandus
While my sexual orientation is entirely hetero, my ‘gender’ is strongly androgynous.
So I get torqued when some schlock-slinging bozo comes up to me and tries to peddle his gender-oriented crap at me (Look, girlie, it’s PINK! Buy it!), because of his bourgeois assumptions built on the foundation of reproductive anatomy, on which sexual organs I have or don’t have,….
Oh, that is just too personal.
My choices of dress, entertainment, art, and reading material are often questioned — and sometimes challenged — because of my sex, or because of my cerebral androgyny. It was even worse when I was a kid. Like it’s ever really anybody’s business but mine.