This is going to shock the bejeezus out of most of you, but I’ve been a wee bit too busy lately to keep up with this blog. Strike that, I’ve not been busy enough. I generally do my best writing when attempting to procrastinate items of consequence. Now that I have a number of those piling up, I expect you will be tortured on a regular basis by my bizarre notions, questionably accurate recounting of events past, and long confusing sentences that I still hold to be grammatically perfect, invented words and all.
I wanted to share with you all, including both of you who actually give a frog’s buttery behind, about my excruciatingly told exploits. I had the opportunity a few weeks ago to meet up with the Lioness of Edinburgh herself, my spiritual sister Becky of lost lamented ‘I Hate Roller Coasters’ fame. She still hates them, by the way, albeit being a compulsory rider of some note(1). We walked the length and breadth of Manhattan, although I’ll share that the Lioness wore more sensible shoes than me leading to the introduction of new mighty scars to my ragged dogs. It didn’t matter that it was our first real life meeting; it was as if we grew up together. Some people you understand from first encounter that you are simply supposed to know them. I love it when that happens.
Spending the time with her was inspirational, and could not have come at a better time. Here I was scribbling a sporadic opinion or two over the year, while she, though brilliant maneuvering, exceptionally hard work, gracious heart, and frighteningly effective interpersonal skills, is now hobnobbing with the upper echelons of government and enacting positive change for LGBT people in the UK and affiliated Commonwealth. While her stories are awe inspiring, they made it abundantly clear that this was exactly what I didn’t want to do. Ugh, I’m just so glad someone else is picking up that fun little horse chestnut. Look, after decades of introversion I’ve only worked my way up to co-chairing a monthly Spectrum meeting and sporadically eating lunch with new people instead of crawling into the bushes to read(2). Give me some time people; my spirit animal is a goat, so there is only so much to work with.
In keeping with the tradition of living a life punctuated by incomprehensible changes, I’ve enrolled in a Master’s program for Marriage and Family Therapy. I truly have no idea where this is going to take me, but the breezes are a blowin’ in the right direction. Not only do I find the material frighteningly engaging, but I also managed to emerge from a marathon weekend of back to back 8 hour classes feeling elated. This is new. Having the attention span of a coked up housecat, I found it nearly implausible that I remained mentally present the entire time and even participated. Instead of pulses of glowering disdain and bits of malevolence at my cheerfully engaged classmates, I truly want to get to know them all better and even establish friendships. I’m not sure what the hell is wrong with me(3).
The truth of the matter is that I have changed. Instead of adhering to the lifelong pattern of pursuing avenues my warped perception indicated were suitable for my misfit gender expectations, I’m simply following my calling(4). If only I had known the road to new directions(5) was as easy as gender transition(6), I would have paid a lot less attention in math.
- The Queensferry Gazette recently featured a glossy cover photo of her descending rapidly, hair fanned out in a magnificent mane, with a look of perturbed irritation on her face.
- Generally with a book, as I cared little for reading bushes.
- Then again, my last program was an MBA with night classes after long workdays with scads of dreary subjects like finance and accounting. I think that’s enough to make anyone not forged in the corporate kiln want to mosey into an ISIS training camp and bust their balls a little bit.
- For the last time, no, I’m not hearing voices in my head. When I say things like, “the dog told me to have that last piece of pizza”, I don’t mean literally. It’s just that she’s so obvious about wanting it, and I’ve had enough of tomatoey dog farts ruining my enjoyment of ‘Outlander’.
- Not a ‘Glee’ reference. That ‘New Directions’ has been dead to me since they killed off Finn. Yes, yes, I know, but they could have seamlessly replaced him with Drake or something.
- Compared to that last Accounting project (that I still don’t fully understand), therapy, second puberty, hundreds of hours of electrolysis, major surgery, and stumbling around looking like Strawberry Shortcake on a bender until I figured things out were cake.