So I was in the burrito (slash burrito bowl, slash taco, slash quesadilla) line, dutifully relaying my burrito desires to the burrito maids, and the one who sloshes the salsa on says, "What kind of salsa, sir?" I'm used to this kind of thing: I'm six feet tall; I dress like a man; I have a strong nose; I don't wear makeup; I have Hanson hair. I get it. But here's the thing: I also don't get it. Because as much as the choices I make about my physical appearance are generally construed as masculine, I am also, when you look at me, pretty clearly a woman. I don't have boobs bursting out of my v-neck, or a tall hat made out of fruit, but still. And, fair enough, the salsa queen did eventually notice that I was not a man. And her mistake embarrassed her, frazzled her, and caused her to mangle my sofritas burrito. It looked like the bowels of a recently-happy Mexican. It looked like the part of the sewer system where the pinto beans, sour cream, and tomatillo salsa have not yet had a chance to mingle (there's a sign at this point in the sewer system that reads "One mile to Illegal Pete's"). It looked like a serial killer had sliced through the belly of my burrito, then stomped on its chest. So Frazzled Burrito Maid sort of wraps up my "burrito", but doesn't hand it to me. She just leaves it nearest to where she's wrapped it. In my dog fur-covered man jacket, I have to reach across the stuff that will soon be in other peoples' lunch to get my "burrito," which is, at once, bleeding sofritas juice and gender vomit all over the stainless steel counter. This is the "burrito" I ate five minutes later with the help of a spoon and twenty-seven napkins.
I'm not interested in all of the in-between sour cream of this issue right now. I think all I want to say is, maybe look people in the eye. Because the last thing the world needs is a sad-looking burrito.
