I am having an involuntary identity crisis.

Specifically: Am I a man or a woman?

I would… I am having an involuntary identity crisis.

Specifically: Am I a man or a woman?

I would say that I’m the latter, but others might not readily agree – including the nurse who filled out my birth certificate the day I was born.

I should clarify, before your imaginations bottle-rocket, that I am female, with all the accompanying parts and mechanisms, and that I have no male parts sticking out anywhere that I’ve noticed.

So what could have led a nurse, a trained professional, on the day of my birth, to confuse the nature of my sex?

My name.

Hello, my name is Christian.

Isn’t that a guy’s name? Well, I haven’t heard that ten times already today.

This apparently was such a conundrum for some nurse, in some hospital, somewhere in Minnesota 22 years ago, that she took it upon herself to change the name on my birth certificate to Christina.

Thanks a lot. The formal name change I recently had to go through to acquire a passport was well worth her trouble. Right.

Oh, if only the confusion had ended there. Not the case.

All mail and phone calls are addressed to Mr. Christian. In passive-aggressive protest, I refuse to open this type of mail. And I tell the inquiring person on the phone that Mr. Christian is unavailable.

I do believe there is still a certain army recruiting officer stationed in Hopkins, Minn., sitting at his desk, calling my parents house at regular intervals to see if their son, Christian, is interested in serving his country.

Their son respectfully declines the invitation.

To be honest, I’m used to the confusion, and, believe it or not, find it amusing.

But one night, I was thrown a bit off kilter by a couple of guys, who were not only convinced I was a man, but also that I was a man in drag – a bona fide drag queen.

Now, I have been known to parade around in platform heels, singing Cher songs at the top of my lungs, but such was not the case on the night in question.But I was performing on stage in a Bertolt Brecht review, playing a dominatrix-style cabaret performer. Throughout the performance, I sauntered around on stage with my long hair dyed black. Dressed in skivvies and fishnets, I balanced atop a pair of needlepoint heels.

After the performance, I left the theater amid a crowd of people looking for a bar that would them in after last call.

It was cold outside (Minnesota, eh?) and I was going through a stage in my life during which I thought nothing was more haute couture than purple suede and lavender, fake fur applied to a winter coat. My stage makeup was still on, and my hair done up in far too many pins.

To my surprise, two guys turned to me. One, wearing a wide-eyed expression, pointed his finger and, in his loudest drunk whisper, said “Look man, it’s a man!”

Of course, there was nobody standing behind me. I looked over my shoulder and found only a wall. He was referring to me.

Now, as cool as I think drag queens are – and I really do – unfortunately, I cannot claim to be one, no matter how much purple leather and fake fur I may be wearing.

I opened my mouth, taken aback. I couldn’t think of a thing to say. I was not a drag queen; I was a girl. Up until this moment, no one had made such a claim about my identity based on my my appearance My ill-fitting name always seemed to be the only issue.

It is a rather odd feeling to be labeled as something you are not.

I’m sure others can attest to this.

Credit card companies, salespeople and my gynecologist take note, I am setting the record straight: this Christian – drum roll, please – is not a Mr.

Miss Christian Schoening can be reached at .