Imala-dy

There are some interesting people in this world, and I think most of them have either worked with me at some point, or work with me now. Some are interesting in a good way. Some are interesting in a very strange, "are we on the same planet?", and "seriously- what is wrong with you way?".

But there is one that takes the cake.

His name is Gary. I mean Imala. He, I mean she, is shall we say different. This person's mascara is impeccable and has a delicate touch with his eyeshadow. He carries a Tinkerbell purse. His boobs are getting bigger and his hair is getting fuller. His Adam's Apple isn't as noticeable as it was 6 months ago.

I've never been around anyone actually going through a sex change. I mean, I've seen it on Maury Povich and Jerry Springer but to actually work with a man that one day will be penis-free is well- challenging.

And not just for me.

Imala helped out a friend of mine. She turned to say thank you, "Well, thank you, sir. I mean, ma'am. Sir. Oh God. I don't know what to say."

Imala was a good sport and told her that he prefers to be called ma'am. His name has been legally changed to a girl's name, after all. But, to me- a simple name change doesn't mean he is a woman. I have a hard time saying ma'am to someone that has never had the pleasure of intense menstrual cramps, bra straps that won't stay in place, or wearing heels for hours on end.

Okay- to give him credit, I think he probably has worn heels for hours on end but . . . no. Still can' t call him ma'am.

I know that day will come when Imala will have the full surgery and acquire a va-jay-jay. And when the day comes and he can honestly say, "Im-a-lady" . . .

I'll call him ma'am.