I am really glad you weren’t there, because I blew a gasket when the storied race director, 75-year-old Tennnesee “Tenn” K. Pace, asked me to pull down my pants.

With the encouragement of my college basketball coach, Al E. Oops, I had registered to compete in the women’s division of the Movement Marathon, a fund-raiser to promote O.I.C. awareness. I showed up for the race in a stunning hot pink singlet and fuschia shorts. Underneath, I wore my brand new JogBra and down below, an advanced prototype of the new Tuck-It-In^® jockey strap developed by my director of transgender products research, R.N.D. Funding.

Looking back, I probably should have shaved my Van Dyke and worn a different hair style because the race director ducked my punch, grabbed my man bun and flipped me over his shoulder, my lipstick and Mascara smearing when I hit the ground.

Getting tossed by the septuagenarian Tenn K. was not nearly as humiliating as his pulling off my shorts to reveal my Tuck-It-In^® strap.

“Aha!” he yelled. “I knew it.”

“Knew what?”

“You’re wearing a bulge-suppression device. You’re a man.”

“Not today,” I countered. “I’m identifying as a woman right now.”

“You have man-type equipment.”

“That’s irrelevant,” I squealed, trying to work myself up into a hissy fit. “I am most comfortable as a woman today, so I registered….”

Tenn K. reached under my singlet and tugged at my JogBra until the snaps gave way, revealing my modest décolletage and minimal cleavage.

“See there,” Tenn K. said. “You don’t need a bra.”

I burst into tears, grabbed my JogBra, and clutched it to my naked bosom.

“Yes. Yes. I am flat-chested, but so are many runway models, and you never see people pulling down their pants.”

“But you have hair all over your chest,” Tenn. K. said, “and a big patch of it between your…,”

“Breasts!” I shrieked. “Go on. Say it. Admit I have breasts!”

Thank God Coach Al E. Oops showed up at my side. I burst into tears and buried my face in his chest. It was comforting to feel his hand patting my hairy back.

Coach Al pulled Tenn K. aside for a heart-to-heart, occasionally gesturing toward me. I stopped sobbing long enough to hear Tenn K. say “just this once.”

“It’s all worked out,” Coach Al said quietly. “Put your JogBra back on and tighten down your Tuck-It-In^® strap. Go on to the starting line.”

As you might expect, I was thrilled. I squealed with delight as I freshened my makeup and sashayed to the starting line.

I wish I could tell you I won the race that day, and that the humiliation I experienced over my sexual confusion was erased by the thrill of victory.

But I came in next to last in my division, behind a slew of broad-shouldered, muscular women with rock-hard, non-jiggle breasts and five-o’clock shadows. I gave each of them a promotional flyer for my company’s Tuck-It-In^® strap, just in case.

Walking back to my car, I struck up a conversation with the one woman I beat. The slender, petite blonde asked where I got my fuschia shorts and sling-back running sandals. Leaning against my classic Edsel convertible, we chatted for an hour. She was very sexy, and when she rested her hand on my arm, I felt significant pressure welling up under my Tuck-It-In^® strap.

I asked her to meet me for a drink that afternoon, and she said yes. Driving home, I wondered whether she liked me as a man or as a hairy-chested woman.

Oh, well. I guess if it comes up again, it will give us something to talk about.