Not to Worry

I've gone a long while without writing, unusual for me, and several friends have said that they were worried about me. I did leave off with a dark note three weeks ago, so perhaps the fears grew out of that. An important thing about me: I typically write during a crisis. If I'm not writing, things are probably going smoothly. As is the case presently.

These three weeks have not been without tumult, but the drama has not been about me. My wife has had both parents in the hospital this month, both on the mend at present. The lingering nature of their rehabs, and the effort required by my wife and her sisters to care for extra animals and households, has made me the rock that my wife can cling to. Not a bad place to be, but an unfortunate way to achieve it. I think my shaved legs seem much more minor to her now, relative to the big picture.

My whole attitude has been much sunnier this holiday season, and I am certain that bare legs have contributed. I just feel so much more comfortable with myself. I look right when I am crossdressed. I feel much closer to humanhood now. Many of the little things I've done to assuage my gender pain over the last year seem much less important to me now, like I was compensating for the inability to have my legs shaved. For instance, I have let my arm hair go for weeks. I don't feel as compelled to address it. I will trim and bleach before next Saturday's meeting, but it isn't a major worry now in day-to-day life. I've always been a leg man, and apparently I'm very much a leg girl as well.

So, if things continue to go well, I'll have to write about sunshine and lollipops, or not write much at all. Since you can count my joyous blog entries on one hand, you can guess which way it'll likely go. But never underestimate my capacity to create a new crisis, and something dark to write about.

False Hope

I need to stop thinking that things are going to work out. I've always said that if you expect nothing, then you'll be pleasantly surprised when something good happens. Maybe not a fun way to live, but a good defense against hurt. But I keep crawling out on that limb of late and getting slapped down. Making love with a drunk girl doesn't mean that the marriage is working out.

Today, I made a point of apologizing for misreading her signals in bed Saturday night. She started to cry. After coming home late, she took my bedtime actions as an indication that I had indeed been "hooking up" with someone. She's broken down and sobbed twice now in twenty-four hours. She keeps saying that she's afraid that she has made a grave mistake in trying to trust me again. She calls it misplaced trust. I'm calling my naive beliefs misplaced hope.

She asked today what my idea of a compromise would be. I thought for a long while. Do I start out big, knowing I'll get haggled down? Or do I tell her my honest best offer? I opted for the latter. I want to have bare legs from the first weekend in November thru the first weekend of March. That gives me five support meetings, where I can dress in the fashion that I really want to, in just over four months. This gives her eight months of hairy me. I think this is a generous offer.

But no, it is all about the shaved legs. She just finds it completely intolerable. I asked what her idea of a compromise is. She didn't know. Or she didn't want to say. She's going back to her therapist Tuesday, so I'm sure she'll either change the locks while I'm at work, or throw away all my Leslie things. Okay, maybe not, but I refuse to count on something good happening. I'm going to be ready for a sucker punch. It hurts too much to expect this to get better.

Transgiving: 7 Hugs = 1 Good Night

Saturday's support meeting was the annual Transgiving potluck, my first. I got a couple hours of prep time before the meeting, so I got to get my stuff together. I left the house already wearing about half of my Leslie attire, and already had my foundation in place. I wanted to reduce the amount of time that I tied up the bathroom at the meeting, and I succeeded. Just a quick change from pants to skirt, and some makeup detailing, and I was good to go.

My best friends were all there. I got a lot of quality time with Tina and Shannon, less so with Cassie. I hadn't seen Tina since June, Shannon since August, though I chat with both frequently. I made a point to embrace my friends, because I'm never sure that I adequately communicate how much they mean to me. I've learned so much about friendship in the last year, and I couldn't have done it alone. I was involved in a lot of hugs, and the accident reconstruction team places their best guess at seven, a lucky number for sure. Good food, good company. So good, in fact, that I ran very late coming home. But I left feeling loved.

When I got home, you won't believe it..... wait for it.......the wife was pissed. Didn't see that coming, huh? Shoulda called, I guess. I knew I needed to leave the meeting earlier than I did, but couldn't make myself. Why? Well, I was having a great time with people I haven't seen in a long while. I didn't want to stop being Leslie. And many people were lingering long past the standard end time, and I really didn't want to have to exit in boy mode in front of so many of my peers. I normally wind up being one of the last out of the building, and so I am seen as a male by a few when I arrive very early, and a few when I leave very late. So, yes, I was embarrassed to be seen out of my girl clothes. And my pride, combined with the contract stipulation of not going out in public, made it happen.

Anyway, the wife was angry that her idea of a Saturday night with her husband has been rudely subverted by my tardiness. She was exercising when I got home, then she started applying her makeup in the bathroom. I didn't know she was angry, as we hadn't really spoken yet. I entered the bathroom, grabbed her around the waist from behind and told her that she really is a beautiful woman. She smirked. I was feeling very loving toward her. I had just had a very happy night, in no small measure due to her insistence that I attend my support meetings. A few moments later, she stormed past me, saying that she was going out. Oooookaaay. Where will you be? I'm not sure, you can join me if you want to, she hissed.

We went out to Friday's. She had two Long Island Teas, I had coffee. She wants me to put her closer to the top of the list. She pays second fiddle one Saturday a month, but that's too much, I guess. She also had found a coat of hers gone from the coat closet, which she figured I had "appropriated" for my use this evening. She felt better when I assured her that I knew nothing about her coat, and I honestly didn't. It got more pleasant after that. I let her do most of the talking, as she really needed to vent and decompress. It had been a very tough week with her father in the hospital, and now she had decided that I was breaking the rules. So I just let it play out.

We got home, watched the SNL that we had taped while we were out. She added a Corona to her evening binge. We went to bed and I tried to go to sleep. She kept talking. Eventually she said that she didn't understand why I wasn't jumping her bones. I didn't say so, but it seemed to me that wasn't in the cards, as angry as she had been a few hours before. Much as I would like to be inside the mind (and body) of a female, I may never understand how their brains work. So was this alcohol induced, or a bipolar mood swing? You make the call.

Where do I stand today? Shaky ground is my best guess, but all seems normal. At least until I screw up again.