My spouse-turned-sister (there is no word for it, I did try ‘spouster’ for a while, but thought it sounded lame) used to have a book on her shelf titled When I’m An Old Lady I Shall Wear Purple. For some reason, this really bothered me. I won’t judge a book by its cover, but I sure as hell will for a bad title. I don’t know what the book is about; I never was willing to expend the energy to pull it out and read the back cover. It’s probably a piece of enriching feminist literature I would absolutely adore, but instead of reading and enjoying, I’ll content myself to being annoyed with the ridiculous choice of words on the spine.
The source of my misplaced outrage is the very notion that someone would wait what could amount to many decades to wear a certain color. I have trouble imagining a circumstance where this would be a big deal unless one were randomly selected for the Hunger Games on this criteria. If that were the case I think I’d let the dream die rather than sit there as an old spinster in my eggplant hued shawl, trembling as I’m selected to engage in a life or death struggle. No thanks, I’m good here with my lime green hoodie. I also don’t care much for people who use ‘shall’ either. It sounds snotty, or like something the Queen of England would say, which I suppose is all one in the same.
OK, I’ll stop making fun of the book which is probably a fine, fine read. My point, now that I’m 40 years young (still so very clever after the 10 billionth utterance) and transitioning, I see absolutely no point to waiting to do anything. Within reason of course, like I can’t retire now and still expecting to eat and buy pretty things. I was asked recently, in a manner most snotty, why I couldn’t wait until my son is in college to transition. He’s four right now, so unless he’s a super genius of some kind, that’s a good 13 or 14 years away. That’s a really long time to feel increasingly uncomfortable. Einstein once explained the relativity of time to imagining 5 minutes passionately kissing or 5 minutes with your hand in a hot frying pan. Those are two very different 5 minutes! I’m pretty sure waiting would be akin to the latter, and would undoubtedly make me a pure delight to be around while the months ticked by with agonizing slowness. And waiting, I might add, for some benchmark to roll around that doesn’t actually change anything.
Aside from the unbearable discomfort, imagine my surprise if the rapture folks were somehow right and Jesus came back to whisk us all God knows where. If I waited only to be called over to eternity in dude mode, I would not be a happy camper. Oh, he and I would have some words. “First off you fuck up my order and bring me a burrito when I clearly wanted a taco, and now you are closing up shop before my order can be changed? Not cool man, not cool.” Well, I’m pretty sure I’d be back with the ‘left behind’ crowd anyway, and with any luck, so would my surgeon.
So there you have it, the title character in the book can wait until she’s a gramma to slip into some grape colored galoshes, but I’m not. One thing I’ve managed to learn so far is that there is never going to be a right time to do anything, so might as well do it now. Within reason of course; I’m not going to advocate putting a down payment on a yacht when your main income is from an assistant manager position at Arby’s. If you are certain transition is your inevitable path though, starting tomorrow isn’t going to be any easier than starting today.