14 Going on 40… Or Is It the Other Way?

Yes, I’ve gone on about this before in a cutesy little list and all, but you have to bear with me, as in some regards, I’m still really a teenager. Don’t worry, still got my driver’s license, any propensity to scream about things unreasonably was never really there to begin with, and the chances of my music disturbing the neighborhood is nil, unless someone is hypersensitive to Simon and Garfunkel gently wafting from my tiny speakers. I am, however, going through puberty again and I think it shows. I’m just waiting for the acne to show up again, which would royally suck.

The average woman my age has been there, done that, is considering going for the easily maintainable lunch lady haircut, and has secret, or not so secret worries about becoming a pre-mature grandma. Yeah, I’m not quite there yet. Not even close. The reality of middle age transition is that you remember very vividly all the stuff you sat on the sidelines for and never got to do, or were even willing to admit to yourself that you wanted to do. Once we start living as ourselves and mentally free, all those old desires come roaring back. Frankly, it’s downright ridiculous, or even ludicrous, but oh, it’s there. Jenny Boylan even admitted to this, and if an esteemed Colby professor can cop to it, the rest of us sure as hell can.

I realized all this about a year ago when watching TV. I’m slow with the Tivo remote. Real slow. In fact, if my spouse isn’t there to fast forward, I’ll often do the unthinkable and sit there slack jawed and watch commercials. I saw one for Sparkle Sketchers and immediately I wanted them. I mean, shit, who wouldn’t? They were the bomb! All pink and sparkly; I mean seriously, how great is that? Reality sunk in when my 4 year old urged me to fast forward. I was watching Dora the Explorer with him and it suddenly dawned on me who the target audience really was. Crap. I bet they didn’t even make them in my size. How unfair is that?

I wish I could say it was an isolated incident, but no. Not even close. In the lifetime leading up to full time transition I managed to accumulate way too much stuff that is in no way age appropriate. I have enough makeup with glitter embedded into it to supply the Bunny Ranch for a solid year. I have clothing that qualifies me as the wardrobe specialist for Rachel on ‘Glee’, not to mention a permanent bookmark on my computer for the sale page at Forever 21. I came close, real close, to filling out the subscription card in an issue of 17 Magazine I was reading at the doctor’s office. Thankfully I was called in before the temptation overwhelmed me. And yes, I’m horribly embarrassed by all of this.

At the same time, it all stands to reason. I was jealous when my sister got to take dance and synchronized swimming. Sure, my parents would have let me if I asked, but I was also under the impression I was doing life without parole in guy land and wasn’t super excited to mark myself the equivalent of a snitch so early on. Instead I quietly read in my rabbit cage and lived inside my own head where such things were possible. When people like to say “the heart wants what the heart wants”, they never think to add on “and the heart still wants 30 years later, dammit”, mainly because it just sounds stupid. It’s true though and yes, I do still want to take ballet.

The bummer in all this is that I can’t go walking around in Sparkle Sketchers without looking like a jackass. If I were to stroll into a beginners ballet class in a tutu, you can bet money that enrollment would plummet like a rock. Being asked to prom and slumber parties are right out. On top of it, my only child is a boy, so my chances of vicarious wish fulfillment by making him live out my dreams are just shot. It’s OK, I would have made the worst pageant mom anyway. “Oh for cripes sake, think up a talent on the drive over there, it’s all a load of malarkey if you ask me. You pick your nose well, how about that?”

The good news is that I’m pretty much over that phase. My wardrobe and makeup are all geared for work, or geared towards running into people from work when I’m not there. I’m probably not going to crash cheerleader tryouts at Amherst High, or have the mailman look at me any weirder than he already does on account of my subscription profile. When Halloween comes, I’ll bypass all the costumes geared toward tweens that infuriate protective fathers and are considered too risque for the dancers at Rick’s Tally-Ho. Inside I doubt I’ll ever feel old, and part of me will always want Sparkle Sketchers, but I’m good being 40, and more than happy just being myself.

Just a Few Minor Adjustments

None of this is really going to come as a big surprise to any woman who has been living as a woman for any appreciable amount of time. In fact, most tween girls would likely roll their eyes and mutter “stupid…” under their breath, were they at all interested in reading my excruciating text. Much of this caught me off guard though, having lived so many years in guy land, disguised as one of the natives, with all the benefits of rank and privilege conferred therein. Oh, the things they never tell you ahead of time.

I noticed, when first getting to know the other trans women in my community, that the vast majority were hot and heavy on getting the manicures. I’ll admit, they looked great, but to me it seemed like a waste doing something I could cheaply and easily do myself. Yeah. “Easily” My early attempts made it look like I had just polished off a full bag of those red pistachios they don’t make anymore. Past failure made me really nervous, which of course didn’t help me stay on the nail one bit. Once I got that part sort of nailed (a work still in progress), I had to learn other things the hard way. Like what happens when you attempt to wrestle the dog off her leash run less than 20 minutes after applying. Or take a really hot shower. Dry to the touch does not mean dry. Ugh. I see why people pay for this.

I also learned why women get so annoyed when men make fun of us for taking forever to get ready. Oh, I’ll plan what I’m going to wear, maybe even try it on the night before to “save time”. When I go to get ready for work though, it’s all wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong! How can the exact same outfit that looked fantastic last night suddenly look like I belong on ‘Mama’s Family’ first thing in the morning? It doesn’t make sense, yet it is so. I change. Wrong again. Worse even! Now I’m getting frustrated. I bought everything I have because I thought it looked really good on me, and suddenly I go to wear it and it’s like I spot gained ten pound pockets of weight on random parts of my body. You guys have no idea. No idea!

When I used to run in male mode early in the morning, like ungodly 5 AM early because that is all the free time I have, I would notice other joggers. Running in daylight, I gleaned that it was fashionable in the grand and secret society of joggers to raise a hand in acknowledgment to brothers and sisters also pounding pavement. Look, when your method of keeping healthy is to pretend you are being chased by a honey badger, there has to be some sort of camaraderie. Anyway, I came to notice that in the wee morning hours, well before sunrise, female joggers refused to return the standard, “hey, I’m a jogger too” wave. WTF?

I came to find it (probably) wasn’t the more than healthy sweat I worked up, nor the prevalent ‘Andy Bernarditis’ red 11 I was displaying on my shirt. Now that I jog as female, I’m way, way, way more cognizant of the fact that it’s dark out. Having a big sweaty man coming toward me at top speed, even if he is a brother in run, induces just a bit of panic. It’s happened a few times now. He waves, and I keep going, but pick up my pace a little bit. Then I check behind me just to make sure he’s continuing on his way and not doubling back. Whole different experience on the other side. I’ve actually abandoned some of my favorite routes now because they took me under overpasses, down seldom used paths, and other dark and scary places. I didn’t realize what a privilege it was to run knowing it was extremely unlikely that anyone would find any reason to try something. Just another minor adjustment.

I’ve said it before, gender hath its privileges, and it also has it pitfalls as well. Right now it’s my fervent hope that I’ll figure out all the latter before I make a gigantic ass of myself publically, or worse. I’m sure there are more on the horizon. And yes, I do try to park close to the door now, and it has nothing to do with being lazy.

Phase Shift

Up until last spring, I lived my life 120 degrees out of phase with myself, which is no easy thing. OK, I’m sensing some blank looks out there, so I think I better explain before I get the time honored ‘index-finger-twirled-around-the-ear’ gesture we like to flash behind the backs of people we consider crazy. Real nice by the way! Some poor soul is suffering a heartbreaking mental illness and you go and do that. For shame! Getting off my high horse for a second, I’ll explain in a little more detail.

In engineering terms, phase is… dammit Michelle, losing them again. Wait, don’t go yet, I promise to make this cool and not too sciency. Seriously, like Alton Brown cool. OK, not in engineering terms, 3 phase refers to 3 waves, all the same and going in the same direction, but 120 degrees apart from each other. Here is a picture. If you look at it all squinty like, it looks like one thing, one height and length, but when you look clearly, it is apparent we are talking about 3 different lines out of sync with each other. Since we live in a technologically advanced age and a huge portion of the population is still able to think science is bunk, it’s all right say that those three waves, or phases, are not even really aware of each other’s existence, or if so, barely.

Until last spring, I was like that three phase set of waves. My outward personality was one of them, my conscious thought was another, and my real identity, my spirit, was the third. All traveled along, none really having a good grasp that the others were there or mattered. It’s OK for this to be true in electric lines, and really it works better that way, but in a person it’s just going to cause a whole lot of problems. Without that synchronicity, the whole is weakened and gradually loses strength. Eventually either the signal just dies, or everything slows down to where the three catch up with each other. Lucky for me, I’m one of the latter cases.

I’m going to abandon the whole engineering part of this now because even though I’m sooo Alton Brown cool, I can tell you are getting bored. Also, in the real thing if the three touch it means really bad things, and totally not the case here. By late fall of 2009 I was slowing down quite a bit, by late fall in 2010 the whole operation was getting ready to collapse. By last spring though, my phases started to finally sync. I had no idea it would all feel so right. Damn the consequences, I would have sat in the road until I was all caught up with myself.

With the doom and gloom specter of dire cataclysm put aside I felt stronger and more secure. I was at a petting zoo with my spouse and son when her shoes began to pain her. I was in dude mode, but thought nothing of swapping with her. Incredibly the world didn’t end! In all the years before I used to sweat over the idea that the ordinary black socks I happened to buy from the women’s section would betray my freakishness in the event my pants cuff came up just a half inch too high. Body, mind, and spirit all working together for once, such notions appeared ridiculously superstitious.

The phase alignment flipped dozens of switches in my head I had no idea where even there. More came with hormones, but in the days before HRT just the simple coming together of self, something the cisgender world takes so for granted, made me 3 times stronger than I ever had been. I had no idea that all of what made me ‘me’ was traveling so far apart from the other parts, and how draining, worrisome, and fearful that really is. The empowerment of synchronicity is thrilling, intoxicating, and joyous. It is synergy; all parts working together to bear a load far greater than even a third of what each of the separate components could possibly shoulder. I truly don’t know how I got by.

Yes, the ghosts of where they all were remains and probably will for some time. Flashes of after image; brief powerful reminders with devastating emotional punch that can induce fear, panic and despair. They are only ghosts though, and not something I’m sure if I even believe in anyway. At the very least, not something I’m willing to share my power with. I’ll push through them though. I can do that now. I’m good now.

10 Things Missed and Not Missed About Male Existance

I’ve come to notice that making lists of stuff is a pretty popular thing to do. I’ve put a couple on here so far, and the feedback is like ten times better than average, even though I’m really saying the same shit I normally do, except numerated. I’d be lying if I didn’t say I got a tiny bit psyched when my stats jump for a day or two, and thus encouraged, I hastily thought up some more crap to sling out there in digestible bulleted format. With no further ado, aside from the remainder of this sentence, unwieldy and suspected run on in its complexity, let talk about a five things missed and five things grateful for in transition.

1.  Miss: Out of Bed and Out the Door in 5 Minutes: Back in my Air Force days we liked to ride a perpetually late pretty boy for always having one foot out the door and one still in the makeup bag. Yeah, it wasn’t that clever of a crowd. I have to admit though, even though I never exactly felt like myself, it sure was nice to jump out of bed and run to the store with absolutely no preparation at all. Well, except shoes and such, but you understand. Technically yes, I can still do this, but it means being mistaken as being intentionally masculine, which is as comfortable as showing up there in footie pajamas. We can, but sure don’t want to.

2. Don’t Miss: Shaving the Face: OK, fine, I’m still some time away from being done with this completely, but after months of being blasted in the face with lasers, there is only a little left to work on. Before that, it was morning agony scraping a slightly dulled steel blade across my increasingly sensitive skin and still needing 2 pounds of military grade super foundation to cover the shadow. Ones sense of femininity is never strengthened by a soft rub against your own cheek and getting stubble burn. Ugh. When it’s all gone for good, my Gillette Fusion will be destroyed with biblical vengeance. A plague of locusts sounds about right.

3. Miss: Looking Like Shit: Yes, society has double standards. I was able to come into work every single day wearing the same pair of jeans and rotating out 3 or 4 remarkably similar plaid shirts and the same shoes. Deciding what to wear took less than a minute, because face it, no one noticed or cared. I could not shave for 3 days, skip the shower even though I ran, and sport the same coffee stain for weeks on end and it made no difference. Now as I agonize over what matches and if I already wore that bracelet this week, I can appreciate the freedom men have to look like shit and get away with it.

4. Don’t Miss: Being Called “Sir”: Aside from giving my inner woman the heebie-jeebies, the term make me feel uncomfortably old and distinguished. Given that I feel about as old and distinguished as Ernie from Sesame Street, and certainly never looked any better, being called ‘sir’ was about on par with ‘your lordship’. At least with the latter I would have known they were joking and been able to laugh at the hilarity of it. I could also never quite believe I was the individual being addressed and instead would look wildly about for my old drill sergeant, sneaking up to bust my ass yet again. Yes, ma’am is better, if only by a short and curly.

5. Miss: Public Urination: No, no, that was never me whizzing on the side of your Jeep Cherokee in the Micky Rats parking lot, although there was a certain freedom in having that option. In dude mode, however, it was nice to be able to walk into any men’s room and relieve myself without any forethought or worry. Now that the row of splattered urinals is forever barred to me, I use the ladies, but with just a tiny smidgen of trepidation. Now, even hopping on one foot, I have to decide to either risk getting hollered at or risk adding yet another hilarious tale of my own humiliation to my formidable repertoire after failing to make it home in time. The good news is that I save up to 35 cents downgrading from the 4 gallon large Diet Coke at the movies to the wimpy 12 ounce cup.

6. Don’t Miss: Shopping Dude Style: Granted I finally got over myself some time ago, it was never really all that comfortable, and I certainly felt weird trying stuff on. Anyone marginally female knows size 14 means a whole range of things, only one of which stands a chance of looking good. I also felt compelled to shop in the male way, making bee lines for specific items and getting out as quickly as possible, all while making a half-assed pretention that I was buying for someone else. Now shopping is fun, I can take my time, and end up leaving the store without asking for a bogus gift receipt because I have exactly what I wanted. Probably a good thing I have no aspirations to amass a fortune in liquid cash.

7. Miss: The Old Wallet: There is a certain efficiency in carrying everything essential in a small folding container that was nearly impossible to forget somewhere, freed up the hands, and went with absolutely any outfit because it didn’t make many appearances anyway. In large crowds it was easily transferrable to the front pocket to thwart even the sneakiest of pick pockets. Unless you were George Costanza, it didn’t weigh much, yet still yielded occasional surprises like that free apple pie you won from McDonald’s Monopoly. The one I retired lasted 10 years, multiple washes, looked like something the dog threw up, and worked just fine.

8. Don’t Miss: Life Without a Purse: I know what I just said, and the wallet rocked for a lot of reasons, but nothing beats a purse for having what you need, whatever the occasion. Yes, I have to schlep it around and not leave it under the table when I leave the restaurant, but it’s oh so handy to have all my stuff. I’m never without a book, foldable flats when my new shoes shred my instep, sunglasses, makeup, every retail reward card ever issued, a snack, plus all the other shit that used to take up my pockets. Look, guys love to make fun of this, but all female clothing is designed to both hide faults and accentuate features, and a bulky ass wallet is the last thing we need to throw off the whole look, especially in the caboose. Also, I’m totally prepared if I ever have a yen to take up shoplifting.

9. Miss: Eating Like a Horse: Before the onset of hormone therapy, I was able to scarf down a giant steak and sausage hoagie with cheese and mayo, along with a  large fries and not gain an ounce unless I did this every night, which of course I did. That was no problem because achieving a 5 pound a week weight loss didn’t take much effort. Now the rules have changed. Not only does food, especially chocolate, taste extra delicious, but merely smelling it makes me pack on weight like a sumo at the Old Country Buffet. On top of that, I can no longer actually eat specifically like a horse with big harrumphing bites and streams of stuff going down onto my shirt without looking like I’m on loan from Dogpatch. In guyland, that was just called enjoying a meal.

10. Don’t Miss: Male Interaction: Not a big stretch to say I always kind of sucked at this. The easy casual way men interact with each other, with the ball busting and other banter never came very easy to me. I’d either have to try to fake it, or remained fairly silent. I was good one on one, because it’s one of the few forums in which men tend to feel comfortable being real with each other. More was usually a free for all I could not keep up with. Talking with women came easy, but I was often pegged as being “different” which made things awkward for completely different reasons. Now though? Oh, sooo much better!

Bonus! Miss: Upper Body Strength: I had this list done yesterday morning, but after spending 6 and a half hours trying to put together a damn trampoline for my son, and struggling with backbreaking tasks like lifting cardboard boxes, screwing things together, and pulling springs, I decided I so, so, so miss my old upper body strength. Not that I was the type to kiss my biceps and welcome people to “the gun show” or anything, but still, it was nice to be able to carry in groceries in less than 5 trips.

The Unbearable Lightness of Being

The Unbearable Lightness of Being was originally an existential book in Czech, by an existential author named Milan Kundera. God help me if I’m going to talk about that today! I’m sure it was super and all, and you should probably go read it, but all I wanted to do was plagiarize the title for today’s post. Chances are Mr. Kundera’s hotshot legal team is scouring the internet every waking minute to sue the bajeebers out of shitty bloggers who co-opt his stuff, but until you see a post urging contribution to my defense fund, don’t worry too much about me. Worse comes to worse, I’ve always wanted to see Prague in spring anyhow.

Instead of dreary Slavs bemoaning the Soviet boot, I want to apply the concept to my own situation. Anyone familiar with the trans experience understands there is a certain weight we carry around for a good long time. It’s the stuff of anxieties and nightmares. It slows us down and gradually makes it hard to think of anything else at all. Even chocolate. That was the last straw for me by the way. I’m not exactly sure anymore why we think we have to do this for so long, but we do (except for the cute little trans kids on Nightline everyone likes to bring up and compare us to, like trucking out the Mozart example to your 5 year old wailing about his piano lessons).

Ironically, I always thought the myth of Sisyphus was incomprehensible, rolling a giant stone up a hill just to have it roll back down again, over and over again, for eternity. Why didn’t he just let that mother roll, sit down on the peak and let be what may? Doing the same thing ad nauseum and expecting better results was something old Sys and I had in common, even if I couldn’t see it. As far as I know, he’s still at it even though his dark underworld of torment has been built up and renamed Newark, NJ. I on the other hand, put my load down, come what may. Look, it was either that or I was going to drop it and I just had my toes done. I hadn’t realized how heavy that was!

Now of course I’m on to the “unbearable lightness of being” part. All those things I was horribly anxious about for so long are just done. Everyone knows, and I’m perfectly comfortable simply being myself. Love me, hate me, be gloriously indifferent all together and it’s all good. Somehow the world didn’t end, a mob of old timey style villagers with forks and pitchforks all fresh out of Frankensteins to chase didn’t appear to flush me up some crumbling gothic edifice, and Interpol still won’t return my calls about those varmints eating my baby lettuce. Oooo, I hates rabbits! I digress, because I can now. It’s part of the whole “lightness” thing, trust me.

Yes, it is going to take some time getting used to being no longer hobbled, but never you worry, I think I’ll learn to adjust just fine. In the mean time I still have to right a few things. Setting down a heavy load, a real groin puller being carried, is that it becomes a rolling juggernaut of destruction on the way back down the hill. Once I help them up though, skies the limit.

Transgendered (No, I Didn’t Make That Up)

I thought I was done with my whole schtick about transgender language and then another thing rose up from the watery depths and made me feel foolish and ignorant. Instead of being a good little girl and blushing and issuing deep apologies, I did my usual thing and asked, “wait, isn’t it possible I was the right one in all of this?” In fact, I usually assume I am anyway, so what gave me pause? The word of the day of course is ‘transgendered’; real word or bumpkinesqe pidgin English that paints a picture of me stoking up a coal fired still in the heart of Appalachia?

When I was a trans newbie, I stepped in it all the time. I was still often marking myself as one of the mouth breathers by throwing around taboo relics like ‘transvestite’, ‘hermaphrodite’, and ‘she-male’. OK, not the last one. Never the last one. All the while I was trying to relegate ‘transsexual’ to the dust bin of Webster’s ‘once-acceptable-but-now-naughty’ words to little avail. It’s OK, I’m still working at it. Since I’ve advanced a few levels, I kind of got it, but still super vague on a number of things. I mentioned before I’m clueless with the whole third gender pronouns. Last Spectrum meeting there was someone who I think preferred ‘zim’ or ‘zir’, and I made every effort not to engage because I knew I was going to fuck that up royally. I’m also still pretty shaky when it comes to gender queer. Oh, I validate it, but I put my stamp on there after only skimming the manifesto, and only then after a 2 hour night’s sleep. I totally support them, whatever that is exactly. I realize I sound like a real piece of work here, but please listen, I apparently don’t even have my own stuff set just yet.

Right here in my own blog, or maybe the repost in PinkEssense, someone make it a point to state that my use of ‘transgendered’ to describe myself was soundly incorrect. “After all, you wouldn’t describe someone homosexual as being ‘gayed’, would you?” They had me, I would never. I really felt like a giant boob, issued apology and explained myself as someone who makes up words all the time. That is true, I do, and it’s a cold snap in Death Valley when someone actually notices and corrects me. It’s naary when they do, but I try to hold my ground. In any case, I made the unusual call that they knew, and I must certainly be wrong. I stopped using it for months, gloating in my keen understanding of the educated trans persons razor sharp patois.

You know of course that since then I have seen other people use it over and over again. At first I nodded to myself sagely for being in the know. “Ah, there went I before becoming the very flower of articulation. Poor, poor ladies, for they know not what they say.” Just recently then I was tooling around on Jenny Boylan’s website because as a trans writer, she’s kind of a heroine to me. Dammit, right there, on her own site, presumably in her own words in the ‘About Jenny’ section, “Transgendered author, Jennifer Finney Boylan…” Yet again, I felt like a giant boob. All those people I was raising my eyebrow at were right, and here was I, the smirking fool with an eyebrow raised that hadn’t even been plucked properly in a few weeks. Really have to keep up on that. If Jenny said it, then it has to be a real thing. And even it wasn’t before, I think we can allow her the right to coin words and have them accepted. If I can get away with it, she sure can.

When I stopped and thought a little more, it all made sense in a way, at least in my own mind. Just because ‘gayed’ isn’t a word doesn’t invalidate ‘transgendered’ as being one. They are two different things and two very different words. If you look at the transgender condition, the most common theme is that adopting it as a self description usually follows some kind of grand revelation we were keeping from ourselves. Yes, we were born transgender and always were, but didn’t own it until sometime later. At that point we became transgendered; transitioned from the self identification of our outward birth gender to our true gender. If I were a peasant girl, unaware of being next in line for the throne, then finally coroneted, I would say I was queened since I wasn’t aware before. OK, I looked that up and apparently that word has some other implications, but you know what I mean I hope. Anyway, in my mind I would describe myself as being transgender, or a transgendered person. OK, I’m good now.

So… Looks Like They Found My Blog…

“Just so you know, links to your blog are zipping around the building.” It’s not exactly the kind of thing I was expecting to hear from my boss mid afternoon yesterday. Yikes. Well, that’s a hell of a thing. OK, I did kind of know because it’s been mentioned to me enough times already, but anyone who knows me should understand by now that I have the ability to mentally gloss over inconvenient truths until I figure out how to deal with them. No, no, no.. that was the old way. Let’s just do this.

My first thought is that I should start sounding more like “Work Michelle”, but that simply isn’t going to cut it here. For one, Work Michelle is about as interesting as the row of desiccated apples I keep on my desk for some reason. Really, I do, and it’s not a trans thing or anything. Trust me; I’m odd on my own, completely separated from this whole transition business. I think I’m going to keep things the same, but I’ll use this opportunity to put a couple of clarifications in print to keep everyone square and indemnify myself from fucking things up too badly.

The original intent of this blog project was to put some thoughts to print as a way of working things out for myself. Kind of a thinking out loud deal where I don’t get strange looks wandering the mall, or barring that, stranger looks. To my surprise, people started reading my hastily scrawled posts and commenting, so I switched gears and used it as a shaky platform to address trans issues either I didn’t understand or had my own spin on. Kind of a ‘By Trans For Trans’ thing like FUBU, but without a pronounceable acronym. Because of this, I tend to use a heaping load of jargon most people don’t have any reason whatsoever to know unless they got stuck talking to me in person for a while and I wouldn’t shut up about it.

Now I know there are cisgender people lurking here as well. Most of them probably never even knew they were cisgender, and even now filling up with resentful rage because they think I’m calling them names. Let me nip that one right now. Yes, I know for sure that I’m pissing off other trans folks all the time, mainly because they tell me directly, but that’s OK because sometimes that is exactly what I’m trying to do. For those of you not trans, none of my clever little digs are aimed at you, and if it seems they are, understand that I tend to say a lot in jest. Yes, yes, I know, “Much truth is said in jest”, so don’t get all Shakespherical on me. All of jest is also said in jest, so when in doubt, that is the final answer.

Since it was never my intention to be a source of education on trans issues, and I don’t really want to make this blog about that, please understand this site is not exactly Trans 101, but instead is like picking up a 4^th year calculus text with the exception of not being smart or accurate. I will, however, draft up a glossary later this weekend and make another tab for easy reference, and also try to figure a way to wedge in a small presentation if Christina [ahem!] ever gets around to sending it to me.

To sum it all up, at work, I’ll be at work and probably not nearly as entertaining. Here, everyone is welcome, but please understand that blog stuff is blog stuff and is in no way intended to be a reflection upon the secretive yet delightful company I work for but won’t be mentioning by name here. I ask everyone does the same please. Finally, although I write in good fun, try to see the lighter side of things, make half assed attempts to be funny and all that, from time to time I do post on some heavier topics that are really aimed at the trans crowd. I’m never doing this to look for sympathy or make anyone uncomfortable, but the trans population has much to discuss and here is where I got comfortable doing it.

Finally, (yes, I said finally a few times already, but I don’t have time to back edit and keep thinking of more things as I ramble on), if anyone is here looking for a good idea of what to expect in the near future, you can expect me. Same me, same sense of humor, same work ethic (if not even better), but looking just a tiny bit different. I was never super comfortable being the center of attention, and although this transition business kind of deep sixed that for a while, my feeling about it really hasn’t changed. As I can see it, none of this really has to be hard, and I’m open to discuss anything. 🙂

The Most Interesting Man in the World

I love those commercials featuring ‘The Most Interesting Man in the World’, don’t you? There is nothing this guy won’t do. He plays baccarat with hirsute sweaty Moroccans, then jumps on a team of sled dogs to run the Iditarod, and skydives from a military transport over the Deccan Plateau at just the thought of curried eels. And all this drunk and with enough presence of mind to hawk a previously obscure beer at every opportunity. When he pauses to tell a story, stroking his beard to remove the civet coffee chewing’s, by god, we all stop to listen.

It’s not all that unusual for trans people to find themselves in a similar role, but without the sweet royalties spilling in. Some cisgender folks, certainly not all or even most, appear to have a level of fascination with our journeys for the same reason we all do of our favorite bearded malt jockey. It’s truly impossible to imagine wanting to do that to begin with. One day a person is wearily haggling over a lawnmower repair at Sears, and next thing you know they are either Greek wrestling a mujahidin in the caves of Ameristan, or equally likely, seeking corrective reconstruction to their genitals. At least so it seems to the theater going public at large.

The Romans would describe me as being in media res, or in the middle of things, or would have had they not gotten to the end and stopped coming up with clever little phases. As such, I’m still kind of flattered when someone takes enough of an interest to hit me up with a lot of questions. I’m just a little psyched they find my relatively hum-drum existence fascinating enough to attempt to establish my motivations and getting a little chill thrill from hearing what I intend to do about it. I was never asked many questions before about myself, and frankly even find the transition process rather onerous and drawn out. How did you tell people? How did they react? What was laser beard removal like? Are you, you know, going to get…the surgery? Mind you, aside from minor spikes of activity, the vast majority of this was simply going to unpleasant but necessary appointments; little bits of forward action between loading the dishwasher yet again or reading myself to sleep. Still, nice of them to take an interest.

Reading the other excellent blogs out there (check them out, down on the right), it seems the majority get tired of this after a while. I suppose I will as well. I’m sure after a long day of transporting a troop of diapered howler monkeys in a Winnebago, The Most Interesting Man in the World likes to put on his fuzzy slippers, crack his 17^th Dos Equis of the day, and chill out without having to hear about it. We are all only human, and humans have a limited capacity for talking about their own shit and maintaining any enthusiasm about it after a while. After some months or years though, the temptation is simply to tell them to just go read a book or something.

If we can do it though, I think we should. I know, I know, we are people to and deserve dignity, respect, and some privacy. Most of us don’t care for someone being “absolutely fascinated” by our genitals unless there is romance in the air. We should do it for two reasons really. Obviously it educates people with information they are unlikely to have stumbled upon on their own and builds up good will. They aren’t asking to give us a hard time; they are asking because they really want to know, and Wikipedia doesn’t exactly pack the same punch as a firsthand account from someone actually sharing an environment with them. Put yourself in their place for a moment and pretend you just found out Sara Mouskawitz in accounting was really the Most Interesting Man in the World. You would be grateful for the opportunity to ask a few things.

We also do it for the next batch coming after us. Yes, I am saying let’s do it for the children. If we can save someone who still has this mountain of crap to go though and probably doesn’t even know it yet, I think it’s the right thing to do. People like Chaz Bono, Jenny Boylan, and Chloe Prince put themselves out there every day – print, TV, etc – and honestly, aren’t you grateful? I source people all the time just to corroborate my own stories, and every time I’m insanely grateful they did this because it makes it so much easier on me. It would be nice to keep that going. Besides, in an astonishingly short amount of time everyone is going to know we aren’t actually the Most Interesting Men and Women in the World and leave us to crack a Dos Equis in peace. Stay thirsty my friends.

The Spirit of ’09

I’ve done a lot of reminiscing about my moments of trans experience before coming to the slow realization that I was in fact trans. I thought it might be fun today to go in the other direction and go back to the last time things seemed simple, and really, the last time I managed to fully convince myself that I was indeed male. This might seem strange, but I think it is important to acknowledge and remember times of joy and good feeling. They were important steps that brought me to where I am today.

Deep in the fiery crucible that was 2011 in which the very last shreds of illusion about myself were burned away, I often thought back to 2009, the last time I remembered really feeling good about myself, my life, my marriage and my future. I thought I was winning you see, because I hadn’t yet realized the race was lost before my first shaky steps were taken 37 years before.

I had been dealing with bodily discomfort for a long time by then, and my attempts to adjust were becoming more extreme. In the years previous I put on a massive amount of weight, close to 100 pounds above my old Air Force weigh in, plus grew a beard flecked with considerable grey. Between that and my hairline I looked at least ten years older than my true age. When it finally hit me I was going in the exact wrong direction, I undertook a very focused effort to turn the dial all the way to the right, full volume, no distractions. It worked pretty well! The beard of course was the first thing to go.

As the spring and summer came about in ’09 I felt very strongly that I was winning, and with a vengeance. My huge Clausian belly was gone and I worked out rigorously with weights every morning. Every weekend, and every weeknight I got the chance, I strapped my son to my back and headed out on long 5 mile hikes around the local area. Never exactly a contented soul, he loved the jostling motions and gurgled many observations and questions in his sweet little voice. We bonded as the fat melted, my legs grew powerful, and a sheath of hard muscle developed over my whole upper body. I felt good, strong, powerful, and very alive. After the stress of having a consistently attention hungry child for a year and a half, my spouse and I started bonding again, although old problems lingered and she was distracted with her PhD program. Still things were looking very up in every direction.

In spite of what was to come, that summer remains a memory of great contentment for me, and one of great victory all around. I was well on the way to building a perfect male body. Things were going fantastic at work. My spouse passed her exams and transitioned from student status to candidate status, which I understand has great import in the world of academia. My son’s language took off finally, adding new words and then phases to his vocabulary when just 8 months previous he had one simple word, “up”. My dad was also working out every day and we compared notes every week at our standing breakfast date, along with multiple trips downtown to enjoy our mutual passion for the local architecture. By Thanksgiving everything had changed.

In September after that last golden summer I started having mixed feelings about my workout routine. My arms and chest were noticeably bigger and the view in the mirror I expected to fill me with exuberant pride instead made me feel vaguely uncomfortable. I could not explain why. I kept it up, attempting to push through, but by the following spring I simply couldn’t anymore. In November my spouse traveled to NJ with her mom and the baby leaving me alone for a week and my very first instinct was to go femme for the time, at least in the house. It felt right. A little too right. The reunion in Jersey wasn’t nearly as joyful as it should have been, and I knew it was my fault.

In December the final blow to my effort towards an ideal male existence came. My dad had been suffering from stomach issues since before Thanksgiving and we assumed it was an ulcer. The MRI on Christmas Eve showed something far worse. My world was crumbling and simply couldn’t hold; my glorious year of victory sped toward crushing defeat on all fronts. The entire next year would be spent attempting to unconsciously preserve the shell around me that had been there so long. We fought the good fight, all of us, but by early last year it was all over. The chick had emerged out of the weak and shattered veneer and there was no putting her, me, back in there.

Now it’s 2012 and summer. Time for a do over year. I can’t bring my dad back, or my marriage, and I’m back to losing a new layer of fat the hard times somehow put on me. This time though, I have my legs on the ground and no longer curled up in an embryonic state. It feels good, and I think if I gain back the momentum I had in the summer of ’09, I can fly.

10 Lessons Learned in Transition

A great deal of you are going to read this and say, “well duh Michelle, we know that already”. Try not to though because saying ‘duh’ makes you sound like a teenage goon from an 80’s movie just waiting to have his ass handed to him by some smart-alecky punk named Corey. This is for people who may be coming to the realization they are trans, or may know someone who might be. I think it would have been nice if someone gave me a list at 17 along with a smart whap on the back of the head. Like the last list, this is kind of tongue in cheek, except in this case not really.

Also, a lot of people thought my last list was all labeled #1 as some kind of clever statement when in reality, WordPress and PE changed all my numbering and I wasn’t savvy enough to fix it. Consider my 11^th and 12^th lessons to be “learn non- MS Word text editing”, coming right after “learn how to edit text in MS Word”.

1. If You Ignore It, It Still Won’t Die – Trying to fix yourself through denial is about the same as slapping some black electrical tape over the engine light after it comes on. Having done both things, I have come to find that this simply reschedules the problem for a much worse time, and probably quadruples the cost. I dimly remember the Bible admonishing “thee” to not hide a candle under a bushel as an allegory to something, and have confirmed this was sound advice when the fire started. If you can mentally deal with it now, it’s probably going to be easier, and even if not, at least in the near future it will have been in the past; my favorite place for things I would much rather deny.
 2. The Military Will Not Make a Man Out of You – Now, I don’t regret for a second that I joined the Air Force and served my country, but from the outlook of a trans person, boy did it suck. After attempting to ‘man up’ by joining various teams and the Boy Scouts when I really wanted to hide and read in my cage, my thought was that nothing fixes you up better than the Air Force (except for the Army and Marines, but definitely not the Navy). True, it kept me focused with the high intensity learning of my career, and the higher intensity learning of the tens of thousands of rules and regs, many of which seemed aimed specifically at me, but it didn’t change my trans-ness. Not even when dodging camel spiders or attempting to solder a microchip while wearing a gas mask and huge rubber gloves. By all means sign up if so inclined, but don’t expect it will change anything.

3. Exercise Full Disclosure if Getting Married – This is probably a good idea post-transition, but I’m talking about the first time around. Most people get hitched with a basic understanding that their partner is going to remain in the gender they met them in. When this changes all of a sudden, not only does it seem like a big ‘fuck you’, the first thing they do is look back to see how they were duped. Chances are, you aren’t going to fess up about being trans at this point because you don’t really understand that yet, but we all know there were clues. Knowing how to put on pantyhose by the age of 8 without getting a run would be a big one and probably shouldn’t be left out. When the walls of the façade you have been propping up all these years finally come tumbling down, it sure doesn’t hurt to have an “told you so” or two in the bag.

4. If You Ignored #3 and Get Caught Later, Don’t Half Ass It – She found some pictures; he accidentally opened your breast binder. Yeah, now is a good time to catch up your partner to the past you have been dodging. True, you might not be ready to admit anything to yourself yet, but filling in some of the blanks is a lot better than slapping a deceptive looking band aid on the problem and hoping it won’t start gushing later. Just like the engine light, waiting till later is really, really bad. Downplaying things is like telling your trigger happy alcoholic uncle the noise was “probably” not a burglar, knowing full well the fuse to a cherry bomb is fizzing down behind him.

5. Your Therapist Might Be a Dick – I’ve talked to a few people now, still on the cusp of transition, who tell me, “Yeah, I went to see Dr Z, but man, was he a dick! I never went back.” Not everyone has this experience, but some do, and I kind of did. Don’t let this dissuade you at all. The therapist is a major gatekeeper, even though they get upset if you call them that. They take the Standards of Care very seriously and are genuinely interested in making sure you should be starting on this journey. After all, you may just be gay, not that there is anything wrong with that. If you think you might be trans, it is totally worth it to put up with some irascible badgering to make sure.

6. Foundation is Not Your Friend – Before we begin much needed beard removal, we still like to go out and about. I personally found that schmearing on a whole bottle of Covergirl did a wonderful job in masking that shadow and making look like a child’s nightmare at the same time. On a hot day you can prepare to look like you just opened the Ark of the Covenant, and on a cold one, keep a watch for a Madame Tussaud patrol vehicle looking to recover you back. Yes, we all hate to have anything mannish about our appearances, and with light make up, someone up close may notice something. Too much though, and they will notice you from across the street and peg you as a recently fired drag queen. Less is more.

7. Prepare a Damn Speech – When you are ready to come out to people, it’s pretty exciting and scary. Chances are, if you cold call it, you are going to ramble all over the place and sound kind of loony as they look on quizzically. Conversely, after you told the 67^th person, it all gets just a little bit onerous. If you have a speech prepared, you can recite it rote, right from memory, as you mentally categorize your fingerbowl collection. I know that sounds cold, but even after 67 times, without something prepared, you are still going to fuck it up.

8. Don’t Assume People Know Anything – We, or at least I, have been there a few times. “What I wanted to tell you is… I’m transgender [dramatic pause]”. It’s good to remember that all of our trans jargon sounds really familiar to us, but to the majority, you might as well tell them you are chtmoiderated. They will look at you quizzically as they attempt to recall if this is some disease or ethnic group they should know about, but don’t. Chances are, you are kind of hoping for a good response to your news, and making them feel stupid and uninformed right off the bat sure doesn’t help. Saying transgendered is cool, as long as you follow it with a short definition. This gives them the option of pretending they already knew. People with saved faces are much less likely to spit in yours.

9. Don’t Be a Big Prickly Pants – Yes, you will have people insisting on calling you ‘Roy’ instead of ‘Renee’ just to be a jerk, or out of some weird passive aggressive way of teaching you that you are “wrong”. Most people though are simply going to screw it up, and probably a lot. This sure is going be weird and awkward for you, but get used to it. Unless they do it three times in a row slowly, it’s probably an accident they are going to feel bad about. Same thing with the pronouns. When I was outed at work, the first thing I did was assure people that I wasn’t going to get upset and the anxiety level all around seemed to drop immediately. Just like people who constantly correct others spelling and grammar, you will be technically correct, but much hated for it.

10. Don’t Write a Blog That Is Clearly Attributable To You, Includes Your Pre-Transition Name, With a Picture, and Easily Searchable by Google and Other Fine Products When Still Closeted at Work –  Um, I don’t think I need to spell this out any more clearly.

In the interest of making everyone clear on this, yes, I am the grade A ditz who did exactly all of these things except for #9 (or Don’t Be a Big Prickly Pants in case I screwed up the numbers once again). If I can prevent one person from doing one of these, it’s all worth it, so long as they don’t avoid two of them and make me look even worse. Don’t worry, I’m sure I”ll have more as I go along.