OK, you. What do you want? Those eyes? Those *******? Those full lips? Those pretty prominent front incisors? What is it with that? The teeth?  

Why do you want all this? The house. The car. The job. The partner. Maybe even a second house? Who made you Hera—Queen of the Universe—Ruler of All Gifts and Comely Attributes?

I see you hiding there behind your confident swagger, your calm, all-knowing Buddha smile, hands in pockets—empty as they are.

Who me?  

Yes, you. In your faded Levi’s jacket and those age-defying ****** red low-top sneakers.

Really? Moi? . . .

Who else?

. . .

I know! I got it!

What? What you got?

It’s because we were born in the wrong body.

Really? You think that’s it?

Well, yah!

But, wasn’t everybody? Wasn’t every body born in the wrong one? Doesn’t everyone at one time or another wish circumstances were reversed? “I’ll trade you my small feet for your flaxen hair.” “You give me your heterochromian eyes and I’ll give you my wide-set hazel ones.” Even royalty have that nagging sense they’d be better off in some other tale, playing some other character. “Oh god,” the king cries, “make me a cobbler! Please!”