I Am the Decider

Tuesday featured two, count 'em, two eye-opening conversations for me. The first with my therapist, the second with my sister-in-law. I'll take them in order.

Being at home these two weeks has been very pleasant for me. I'm experiencing an emotional fulfillment that I haven't felt for some time. I feel connected to my family. It's given me an opportunity to do some reflection from a place of interior calm. I'm starting to see the last two years as a period of figuring out who I am and what I want my future to look like. I feel that this phase is winding down. I'm still not sure of the answers, but I feel like I've collected enough data to chart a course.

My current mindset is that crossdressing is enough. Full transition still holds a fascination to me, but the logistics are daunting and seemingly insurmountable, and the cold hard facts of daily living scare the daylights out of me. As long as the fear is greater than the desire, I don't think I want it enough to commit to it at any level. It doesn't have the inevitability that I see as a requisite precursor. I told my therapist, M, that the current situation is adequate, with a few adjustments.

With the commitment not to "change", I would need more freedom to be myself. I need a real, versatile feminine wardrobe. I need to be able to do things with my friends from time to time, not limited to the monthly meetings. When the dysphoria starts building, I need to able to address it quickly and without a lot of fighting. I will still need to have bare legs part of the year, but a better wardrobe would make this less important.

I told M that I know Mrs. Leslie has been wanting a promise from me that I won't "change". I'm not comfortable giving that promise, and I need to be straightforward about that. I've wavered about my path many times in two years. I don't want to make her a promise and have to break it. My current calm has not been around long enough for me to pretend that it is permanent. She will have to decide if what I offer is adequate.

I finally got to have my followup talk with my sister-in-law, D. It was a brief conversation. At Thanksgiving, she had told me that she had found my blog, but our talk was then interrupted and never resumed. I was left with the idea that maybe she had been directed to my old Yahoo 360 blog a year ago, when Mrs. L found it. Nope, she saw the current one, and is up to date on all my shenanigans. She then asked me whether I am transsexual or a crossdresser. If the former, she thought that I need to make this clear to my wife very soon. She also wondered if I was straight or lesbian, an incredibly astute question for someone outside of our community. I told her that my recent thinking is that crossdressing is enough for me. She seemed relieved to hear that.

Now I will need to ask her what she thought of my pics. I don't get much feedback from the world of natal women, and I value D's opinions on these matters very highly.

Happy New Year, folks! Don't make any resolutions you can't keep. I won't be.

Re-Hashing the Holiday

Thoroughly enjoyed shopping for real at Kohl's. Bought many items for Mrs. Leslie, more than were needed, actually. I had an eye for things that might work for either of us. As it turned out, I gave her virtually everything I got. I am keeping a very inexpensive sleeveless cream turtleneck, just a fashion basic. Although I've been aware of the female in me for decades, this was honestly the first time that I felt no embarrassment at all shopping in the women's department. Christmas or not, I think I'll have no trouble recreating this positive experience, perhaps as early as next week, with the "Kohl's Cash" I earned with my purchase.

Christmas Eve was spent with my wife's family. Presents were flying about the room. As it was winding down, I began to get the sinking feeling that I was going to be receiving nothing. This was hitting very close to home for me, after feeling shortchanged (no-changed?) on recent milestones. As I was heading for dark territory of the soul, my mother-in-law pulled out some bags that she'd neglected to put under the tree. One was for me. It was a bright purple fleece pullover, not for the faint of heart, but I will wear it, if infrequently. Perhaps for chimney cleaning or gutter painting. I was genuinely grateful to receive it, though, as I didn't feel so forgotten and marginalized.

Mrs. L and I wrapped deep into the night. Till 6am, to be exact. Not at all unusual. We worked together beautifully and efficiently. At one point, though, a small controversy erupted. She complained about the way I had wrapped one of her presents. Given how hard I was working, I was a bit miffed. I told her that given recent history, she should be glad to be getting the nice things that awaited her. She had no clue what I was referring to. I told her that Christmas Eve had left me a little emotional about the lack of gifts for my birthday, Father's Day, and our anniversary.

She was taken aback. She couldn't believe that I was "harboring resentment" over that. She reminded me that she had told me then that she was saving to give me one big gift (a DVR for the house), and when I said that I didn't want a DVR, that she just decided to let the money go back into the budget. I reminded her that each time she brought up the DVR, I told her I had no interest in getting one, that a gift for me should be something that I desire, unless I say otherwise. That remained unresolved.

She gave me a nice bunch of gifts, men's wear of course, but trendy and colorful. I will wear them happily. In addition, she gave me a 20" necklace, a sterling silver, gold-plated box chain that falls right at my collarbone. Pretty close to a Leslie gift, especially considering her reluctance to go that way. It certainly made me regret starting a fight in the wee hours of the morning. Some other conversations lead me to believe that she looked for some clip earrings before settling on the chain, though she didn't say so directly. I always find a little hope to cling to.

The big gift for the whole family was Beatles Rock Band for Wii. We all had a blast playing with this. I did very well singing, and wailed on the drums on certain cuts, especially from the '66-'67 period. I guess I'll have to wrest the Hafner bass from my daughter's hands at some point to see how I do on that.

Taking Back My Mojo

Tonight made up for the Meijer trip last night. This evening all five of us went to Kohl's. I like this chain a lot.

We started in the teen girls department. Very interesting clothes, but little there that would flatter me, or even warrant trying on privately. I may dress younger than 45, but even I know better than to invest in Avril Levigne's line for myself.

We moved on to the men's department from there. Not so bad here. Much of my male wardrobe has come from here. Options include bright colors and interesting textures. I have utilized some of this wardrobe as part of femme outfits, with the upside that they fit me well. So where I found nothing that I desired yesterday, today I was agreeing with many choices presented to me.

Mrs. L then took two of the kids off for a bathroom break, and I moved with the remaining child over to the women's department. This was mostly to look for gifts for the lovely Mrs. L, but, as you would expect, I kept a tranned eye open for potential Leslie garb.

This just might be the store where I would want to fulfill my longtime fantasy of being locked in a store overnight, free to mix and match all night. I loved so much of what I saw here, both for me and my wife. I plan to return for purchasing Wednesday night. Although I will be herding between one and three kids during this, I am really eager to dive in. I will be buying for my wife's Christmas and her early January birthday. I don't see why I can't include an item or two for myself in the pile o' duds.

I felt very much at ease in the store, so I think this might become a favored spot for buying my "other" clothes. I'm feeling kinda bubbly now. Shopping therapy works.

A Thin Veneer

I persuaded the missus to go out shopping tonight around midnight. I've been enjoying her company. She wanted to see what kind of stuff I liked. Most places were already closed, and I refuse to shop at Walmart, so our other 24 hour option was Meijer's. It's a step above Walmart in quality, and lacks the right wing political connections that we find distasteful.

We shopped for some other people, but mostly we were perusing stuff for me...in the men's department. Gawd, men's clothing is dull, especially when you've been privy to the look and feel of women's clothing for many years. The longer we were looking, the more sad I became. I've tried before to tell her that I'd rather look in certain other areas of the store for things I'd like, but she has indicated that she won't do that. With things going well with us for the moment, I didn't want to push. So, I endured. We saw nothing that I fancied.

We wound up eventually in the hosiery and accessories area, looking at stuff for my middle daughter. I brightened some on the inside, and gazed longingly at many items, including earrings, but I held my tongue. I did get some new underwear, which is quite panty-like in design. As long as it's being marketed to men, she has no problem with it.

I have to fix the relationship before I can advocate for Leslie gifts. This shopping trip demonstrated to me just how brittle my hold on happiness can be. I kept my mood swing to myself, but it took a lot of self-control. I'll need more of that in the near future.

New Batch of Hope

As I suspected might happen, preparing for Christmas is bringing us closer. It was a very happy time for us both last year, even with the leg conflict being fresh and new. Shopping, decorating, wrapping, getting a tree: quality time spent in loving family activities.

Today, Mrs. L worked hard at getting things put away and organized (and thrown away) in the family room, readying for a tree. I worked on the kitchen all afternoon. She has been laughing much more the last two days, even at things that I say. Early in the marriage, this was the norm. The last ten years, not so much. She has grown tired of my schtick. It seems that the holidays are lightening her heart.

I'm feeling much calmer too. I probably take way too many cues from her moods. My moods are frequently a reaction to hers. Right now, that's a good thing. Seeing her happy does my heart good. I don't feel like the gender thing is nearly as important today as I did last week. Maybe if we can put aside the long-term enmity, we can reset ourselves to a long forgotten way of interacting. I'm off work through the end of the year, so we get a chance to work on it.

Changing the subject: If the Payless shoes I bought a couple months back were my belated birthday gift, then I suppose I just gave myself a Father's Day gift. I made a purchase from ulta.com last week. I bought myself a set of makeup brushes, and a collection of 102 eyeshadows. I have managed to buy appropriate makeup in retail situations up to now, but I find eyeshadow very daunting. So many colors, so many wrong colors for my face so much money thrown away. What's a girl to do? Well, I get a hundred colors to experiment with, at about a dime per color. When I figure out what works for me, I can buy some big girl stuff. Pick one up for your Dad next year! He'll love it. The perfect gift!

Second Verse, Same as the First

The "talk" has been mentioned and delayed several times now, but today, as I was rushing to get dressed for my therapy appointment, Mrs. L asked if we could discuss a few things. Helpfully, she provided notes to take with me to my session. As always, some highlights.

As I predicted, saying that I decided to act first and ask forgiveness regarding leg hair is being played for all it's worth. Her therapist thought this sounded like the tactic of an abuser: "I'm sorry I hit you. I couldn't control myself. Please forgive me."

Written quote: "I am enabling your bad behavior by continually putting up with the way I am treated." You just keep upping the ante, she says. "Where will it stop? Will I continually be told that you have to act in a new way (some other change) and you'll ask for my forgiveness later (over and over again)?"

She did get one thing right. I am not acting as a member of the family. The only time I get to be myself even minimally is late at night, and making myself go to bed just keeps getting harder. I am disengaging, not getting enough sleep, and not readily volunteering around the house. Sounds a bit like clinical depression, no?

She wants to know where I think she should draw the line. What is the point where she should quit caring and give up?

So, my therapist and I discussed all this. She got a little pissed off about me being compared to an abuser. So did I, incidentally. We don't buy the enabling hypothesis. We talked a lot about the family issue. It's legit. I'm not participating. Love the kids, but not keen on helping their mother right now. I have to work on this, as it's not fair to the kids.

I think a lot of my strong feelings on the leg hair topic come from control issues in the marriage dynamic. My opinion has never carried as much weight as hers, on finances, schooling, etc. My legs were something I could control. She doesn't like having control taken away from her. Hence, butting heads.

It was decided that rather than address the items she brought up (again), I should make my own list of things that are making me unhappy. Not feeling like an equal member of the family. Not feeling heard. My contributions being taken for granted. Always feeling like I'm on the defensive.

I may suggest that we need to clarify our roles in the household and in the marriage. Truly, a fresh start is the only option that has much hope of succeeding now.

Thanks for slogging through this written version of deja vu. It helps to get this crap out of my head. Just wish I could get it out of my life.

Another Twist

Nothing new on the home front, other than sharing a kiss each of the last two days. I'm at least being allowed to poke my head out of the doghouse, it seems.

There was a family gathering Sunday, Mrs. L's side. During a short time alone, my sister-in-law informed me that she had managed to find my blog through a Google search (hi, D!). I should add that I sent her some of my earliest entries in an email a few weeks ago, mainly in the hopes of having my writer's ego stroked. So while I chose carefully what to share, it seems that the entire cat is out of the bag.

The saddest part of this tale is that just as we were starting this very important conversation, other folks invaded the room, and the talk was cut off, not to be resumed. With the knowledge that my whole story has been set forth, my need for feedback has intensified greatly. Was she appalled? Horrified? Livid? Or, if I'm lucky, merely taken aback. Plus, this means that she has now seen the few photos that I've posted. Gonna be an interesting followup...

This also means that I need to double check my searchability. I have my settings toggled away from being Googled, so now I'm wondering if I have a false sense of security. That would be a good title for my memoir: A False Sense of Security. The ring of truth there.

Again, Nothing

Anyone else getting tired of my story having no resolution?

Mrs. L intended to have the tough conversation tonight. We went to Friday's, had a big meal, talked about many things, and cordially. None of which were her issues with my gender issues, and the tenuous tissue that is our marriage.

I'm not starting this conversation. I will not. If she wants answers, she has to ask the questions. She still won't get any answers that she wants to hear. Hell, I don't even know what I'll say. My stomach hurts just thinking about saying this stuff out loud.

I am not a boat rocker. I have done only what I felt I had to do. I have minimized the damage wherever I can. Still, I feel incredibly selfish. It is all about me.

I just want to get this over with. I guess that contradicts my earlier statement about being unwilling to initiate the talk, huh? I'm a mess. I need resolution.

Commencing Countdown. Engines On.

Mrs. Leslie has requested a talk when she gets home from work at roughly midnight. I think we'll go out for food, and then quickly lose our appetite as we again disappoint one another.

I have absorbed the thoughtful comments, and while I might mention the pronoun thing, I won't push it. I would like her to use the name Leslie, not to my face, but when referring to that bothersome presence that she knows lurks in the shadows, the elephant in the room. That entity that she has never met.

The book, though, is a real test for her. How badly does she want me back in the sack? A month earlier? The things I've highlighted in True Selves are the anecdotes that conform most closely to my own experience. I want her to get a little taste of what being TG means. I'm not trying to prove a point, just let her try on my shoes for a bit. Only fair, as often as I've worn hers.

If I don't post again later tonight, we've either bloodied one another or we're cuddling in bed. If I do post, then the talk went badly, and I'm feeling a cold draft. Catch you later.

My First Idea

I have a compromise in mind at the moment. Well, more of a one time deal. See what you think.

In exchange for shortening my hairless period from four to three months (this year only), I want Mrs. Leslie to read my highlighted copy of True Selves. I don't want her taking notes on all the passages that support her views; I've heard all that and I already know it's in there. I would also like her to start referring to my female persona by name, and use feminine pronouns for my friends.

My goal is to humanize Leslie in her mind. Rather than "villain" or "other woman" or "sad delusion"*, I want her to think of Leslie as a real entity. Which she is...which I am...you know what I mean. I am real, dammit. This is not to start a debate or argument, only to try to open her eyes and mind a tiny crack to my world.

In other news, Mrs. L is already making suggestions for her early January birthday. I haven't given any kind of response yet, but I have a thought. I will tell her that I'm going to re-gift what I got on my birthday: a big bag of diddlysquat. I can carry a grudge just as well as she can. After being ignored on my B-day, Dad's day and our anniversary, and getting her nice gifts on all three of her days, I think it's time to drop a broad hint. If Obama can defend war while accepting a peace prize, I can start a war while negotiating a compromise, right?

*not actual quotes

Hamletta

Decisiveness is most assuredly not a strength for me. It must be terribly frustrating for anyone reading of my travails. Every decision made is one that will be rescinded in a few days. Round and round we go. Seriously, I don't know why you would stick around through so many iterations.

I find myself mulling compromise. Yes, I know how adamant I sounded Monday night. Now I am considering creating a list of things I might be willing to give up, and things I would really like to have. I would want Mrs. Leslie to do the same, perhaps both of us working with our shrinks through the process. Am I a fool to try? Probably, but I truly don't want to end the marriage, except for those times when I do.

I am Hamletta, the Danish princess, standing in the graveyard, epilator balanced in the palm of my hand, asking, "To bare or not to bare?" I could go either way. Just depends on which day the question is asked.

Thanks you for your patience as I rearrange the deck chairs.

Set the Controls For the Heart of the Sun

If you're looking for light wordplay and a happy message, look elsewhere. Unrelenting darkness ahead.

Because she will have therapy Tuesday, Mrs. Leslie wanted a report on my last session. What new compromise on leg hair had I come up with? Well, uh, I didn't. Was I supposed to? From this point, tempers flared.

I've been told that the four months bare plan is not working for Mrs. Leslie. "You unilaterally decided to shave your legs. I didn't have a say." It's my body. And in the past, early notification has resulted in all hell breaking loose. It's easier to do it and ask for forgiveness later. (Shouldn't've said that. That will get major play in therapy.) "That is so disrespectful to me."

"I married a man, not something else." (She can't even say woman, much less Leslie.) "I fear that you're just going to up and leave in five years." Then let's go ahead and make a plan to end it now. "No." You have no reason to trust me. I lived in the closet for 40 years. Deception is second nature. I want to be open with you, but every time I even bring up the subject, you flinch.

I told her emphatically that this is about my identity, that everything I do is paired with a question about who and what I am. It's exhausting and painful. I don't know how far I need to go, or what balance looks like.

She believes that there will always be one more thing, and her therapist is of the same mindset. So, why not figure out a plan to part ways? The only solution she sees is stopping my changes and pedaling backwards on transition. This is a no-go for me.

I have NO desire to off myself, but curling up in a ball and just disappearing has a lot of appeal right now.

Comments are welcome, but please don't encourage my self-pity, and for god's sake, no fighting.

Another Meeting, Another Blog

I went to my meeting tonight. It had originally been a Transgiving potluck, but, organized souls that we are, the potluck was canceled for lack of people signing up for specific dishes. I think one person committed to bringing something. I didn't think I would be attending, but Mrs. W arranged things to make sure I got to go. She's like the duck sauce at the Chinese restaurants. Sweet and sour.

I was able to get out of the house early again, so I changed at Lisa's place and drove to the meeting in full regalia. (I love driving in heels!) There were seven of us all leaving from Lisa's. I mentioned that I had an open seat, and Shannon decided to ride with me.

Shannon is a bit of a role model for me. She is reserved and non-confrontational like myself. We were talking tonight about the difficulty of making huge decisions where there is fallout either way. We both said that our instinct is to just step back and not make a decision. Yet, Shannon made a huge decision about two years ago, when not committing was no longer an option she could live with. She embarked on the journey to womanhood that some of us just fantasize about, "some of us" meaning me.

On the ride over, Shannon wanted to make sure I was okay with the comments she had left on the blog. Hell, yes! While Shannon usually firmly defends me, I am often astounded by how well she is able to interpret my wife's actions and intuit her motivations. When I can't comprehend Mrs. W's logic, Shannon does sometimes get it and explain it to me. All this, and she's never met the woman!

I had a wonderful time at the apartment. Very witty people, and kind to a fault. The meeting was good, too, pretty much just a social gathering. Strangely, it was all MtFs and two GGs. A veritable hen party. It's usually close to a 60/40 split, with lots of FtMs.

Late into the meeting, Shannon noticed how quiet and pensive I was. I told her that a big wave of lonely had swept over me. She gave me a good, long hug, and we talked about it. I think that melancholy is going to be my constant companion for a while. As long as she doesn't bring her best bud depression around to crash on the couch, it'll be okay.

Oh, and Sylvia makes a heckuva Christmas cookie!

Clarifying is Best Left For Milk

I'm busily prepping myself for my meeting Saturday, but I think I need to clarify a few things.

The Abuse thing: Mrs. W and I have different ways of communicating. I do get browbeaten when I stand up for something that she disdains. "Abuse" is a loaded word, and I don't know that I want to go there. Henpecked, bullied, berated, but not abused. I might add that under most circumstances, we get along very well. I believe my therapist wanted to make me think.

Manipulation: I am passive-aggressive, and yes, I can be manipulative. With my therapist, though, I am not overly dramatic. I do phrase things for optimum impact sometimes, but I also downplay other things. For this very reason, I remind her to read my blog a few days before a session. I want her to see how I tell the same stories for another audience. I want her to have the fullest picture possible. Plus, I frequently forget details by the time we meet, so the blog fills in some blanks and allows her to think about the questions she needs to ask to draw me out.

The Escape Plan: This is a very long term situation. We will have to get our finances in order before we could afford to live apart. The fact that I feel like leaving now is largely irrelevant. It could all change, and there will be much time for that to occur. Unless she throws me out. One never knows. Y'all can't get this resolved that easily. This soap opera has many more plot twists left to play out.

Three kids makes this impossibly complex and emotionally weighty. There's much more fallout than two jaded and bitter quasi-compatible middle-aged married folk. She uses the kids as a reason to limit my Leslieness, and I see her point. This could prove very disturbing to one or more of the kids. Living with a very unhappy father could also be damaging, I suppose.

Anyway, I have to get back to my preparations. I think I'll be wearing my gray dress, which I wore to two meetings last winter. I have a miniscule wardrobe, and no money to put toward improving it. I love what I have, but even at once a month, I'm repeating myself a lot. But that's a small issue next to the marital stuff. Tomorrow night, perhaps a report about my meeting.

De-Briefing, or Pantying Up

First off, what an amazing collection of comments on the last two entries. You ladies are aces with me. Melissa and Renee, I am tempted to lock you two in a chat room for the duration, but I do love you both. In fact, I love the lot of you. It's hard to fathom this many folks caring about one's situation. There are also numerous emails, and I intend to reply to them all, but your patience would be appreciated. I'm better at modeling secretary outfits than I am at typing.

On to the main event: therapy. It was a pretty somber session.

In the past, I have repeatedly found new stores of hope to mine. Not so much this time. When the shit hit the fan Monday, I was ready to walk. I was very upset through the afternoon. Co-workers were noticing. I had a great phone conversation with Lori, who helped to calm me. After that, I was more contemplative than angry. If I had written my post in the afternoon, it would have been blistering. Since Monday evening, I've been doing a lot of reflection, and that's where we went in therapy.

My therapist, M, was bewildered by the mixed messages, though not surprised that the bare legs were a bone of contention. I have no intention of backing down on the leg hair. I brought up the notion of an ultimatum, calling her out on the subject. Not in a harsh way, just making it very clear that this is precisely what I need to stay functionally sane. She can react however she pleases, but she needs to know just important this is to me. I feel like we could maintain the status quo for a long while if I have this.

Of course, I've been adamant with my wife before, and I've always backed down in the end. I told M that I'm now realizing that my wife is a bully. Yeah, I know, I know, but I had to see it for myself. Whereupon, M quietly added that she regards me as abused, a judgement that I think has been unspoken for a long time. That's a sobering thought. My wife is undoubtedly the dominant personality. My feelings get short shrift. I hesitate to embrace the idea of my wife emotionally abusing me, but it gives me a lot to consider.

Anyway, coming from a calm place today, I told M that I don't hold out much hope of this resolving. My take right now is that I need to create a plan for getting out. One day of being myself each month is wholly inadequate. I have no other opportunities to express myself fully. I'm not agitated about this, just sad. It just seems like I'm missing the solution somewhere. I've been struggling with my condition, and with her, for two years. I've carved out a tiny niche for myself, especially here in the blogosphere. I've grown bigger than this niche now, getting pot-bound. The Leslie part of me needs more space, more of a corporeal presence. I don't think I can get that concession.

Mixed Messages

Roommates, eh? I'm gonna have to look up the definition.

In our big talk, my wife made it pretty clear that we would not be intimate again until I let my leg hair grow back in. I have no reason to doubt her resolve.

Many of you know that I am up late into the night. My wife frequently falls asleep in a recliner, then I roust her into the bedroom when I retire. That was the case last night. When we were settled, she told me to move over toward her. "Don't you want to get warm?" Well, I don't know... "Oh, just be pragmatic."

The question I wanted to ask was whether this is standard behavior for roommates. We wrapped up together, her legs on mine, and we went to sleep spooning. What am I to think? That she still loves me? I was just going to claim my half of the bed and sleep in her proximity. Is her anger and frustration as narrowly focused as this makes it seem? Happily, Thursday is therapy day for me. There is much interpretation to be done.

Her words and her actions are completely at odds from my viewpoint. I still haven't learned the subtleties of feminine thinking despite my sincere efforts. Maybe this all makes sense to her. I'm just confused by it all.

Incidentally, I am maintaining the epilation. I am completely bare nearly to the top of my thigh. I will probably not take it much further, but I won't be letting up anytime soon either. Smooth legs are amazing, and epilation keeps the sensation alive for much longer than shaving. I am totally sold.

Crumbling Like a Graham Cracker

Won't it be dull when we rid ourselves of all these demons haunting us?
"The War on Drugs" Barenaked Ladies

We've reached a tipping point.

In comments for my previous post, Lisa and Shannon both made the point that we transgendered folk often think that everyone's suffering is related to our issues. It's a perfectly valid point. We're a narcissistic bunch. In this case, though, I was right. It was about me.

The wife came to me today to have "an unpleasant conversation," one she's wanted to have since before Thanksgiving. It was not my imagination. My reading of her demeanor and body language was spot on. The talk was very civil, only the content being unpleasant. My legs, it seems, are indeed a dealbreaker. This is the line that I cannot cross. She has allowed me to grow my nails and shave my pits, but the legs...it's just too much. Mind you, this one thing got me through last winter, happier than any winter in memory. Note, also, that I was feeling nicely non-dysphoric until this talk today. Bare legs make an enormous difference in my outlook. Sadly, the same is true for the missus.

Last year, we had one session of couples counseling with my therapist. In the course of the hour, my shrink mentioned that one couple she dealt with had an agreement that he would get to shave his legs for one week out of the year. My wife is holding onto this idea like a pit bull. Not surprisingly, she sees this a great compromise position for the two of us, instead of the four months bare, eight months hairy schedule that I'm following.

Most of the ground covered today has been gone over several times, both in our talks and here on these pages. I'll try to boil it down to the salient points. She feels stupid for staying with me. She can't talk to her friends about this. If this relationship is doomed to go south, she wants to find a new mate while she's still young and pretty enough.

She told me that she was glad that the two of us had had colds during the last couple weeks, as it gave her a good excuse not to be intimate, not to feel obliged to kiss or embrace. She is glad that we haven't had opportunity to go out together, as she doesn't want to sit across the table from me and carry on a conversation.

"If you want to have a roommate, just keep doing what you're doing. That's what we'll be: roommates."

Her therapist has suggested that my support group is full of people who are divorced or single, and that getting advice from them is a grave mistake. It's true, marriage is rare in any trans support group, mine being no exception. They listen to me, they counsel me, but I make my own decisions.

Me: Have you ever questioned that you were a woman?
She: (pause) No...never.
Me: Well, I question my maleness constantly, every day.
Later...
She: Why does dealing with dysphoria have to involve changing your appearance?

I could go on. I've been trying for two years now to have my cake and eat it too. Today I came to the realization that there is no cake to have. The cake is a lie.

What next? I guess we'll be roommates for awhile. She has every right to feel the way she does, but I am not backing down. My feelings are legitimate, too. I have a right to my identity. I have a right to do with my body as I please. I have a right to feel as comfortable in my skin as she does in hers. I have tempered my desire to do more, out of respect for her feelings. It seems that that is not sufficient.

Prediction: More of the Same

I suspect that Simone and I are the only ones not tired of discussing football, so let's see what else we can get into.

I'm beginning to think that I will be having a confrontation with everyone's favorite antagonist, my wife. She's become increasingly distant since the big holiday. I've broadly hinted that closeness would be welcomed, wrapped my arms around her and such. She's not responding much, and I'm sure(?) it comes down to my semi-bare legs.

What irks me most is that I am not presenting the least bit female around her. I've cut my nails, I'm not wearing toenail polish (something I could easily get away with at this time of year), I'm fully-haired elsewhere. She's got her same old husband, except for some hair. Why is this a dealbreaker?

For now, this is an overreaction on my part. Nothing has been said. It's just a pattern that I recognize from the many previous fallouts. Time will tell if I'm reading her right. Angst is a lot like Christmas shopping. It pays to get started early. Then you're ready for the big day when it arrives.

Decades of Futility

I would consider this a good title for my memoirs, but here I refer to my alma mater's football team. I was on hand tonight as my team lost in overtime. So close, yet...

Thanks for the support, ladies. I'll nominate the lot of you for Kentucky Colonel status. If you were looking for me in the stands, you wouldn't have known me. I was deep cover. Two days growth on my face, and I left the wig and mascara at home. I did wear black pantyhose and black patterned tights as part of a layering scheme to ward off the chill, but ESPN wasn't using their see-thru technology for this game. If I had been prescient enough to know the outcome in advance, I might've done full-on Leslie with a paper bag for my head. I was 20 the last time my Cats beat Tennessee, more than half a lifetime ago.

When we arrived at the stadium, I spent a few minutes watching all the pretty women walking by. Boots were very popular today. Aaah, boots. My brother was amused by me. At one point, I watched a woman for a long while from above.

Me: There's a look. A Pepto-Bismol mid-thigh length coat with matching stilettos.
He: Right up your alley. Especially the stilettos. You'd be 6'8".
Me: Well, closer to 6'6". I don't go for platforms.

He has settled into routine teasing on the gender subject now, which means he's perfectly comfortable with his brother's "differences". It's just one more thing to gently mock. Very healthy, very natural.

Odds and Ends (Mostly Odds)

I thought that I'd lay off talking about epilation, as I figured it was making people sleepy the way large servings of turkey do. But, if two people specifically ask for an update in the comments section, who am I to deny my audience? So, if you want me to write about something, all it takes is you and a friend lobbying.

Ergo, the update. A whole lotta epilatin' goin' on. I had sessions three or four days in a row, and I'm starting again after I post this. I find it to be labor intensive, but worth the effort. I'm told it will get easier after I finish clearing brush. The lower legs are almost to the maintenance point, some stragglers, but stubble-free. The thighs are another story. The pain is much greater, the hair is thicker and coarser, the skin much more sensitive. The back of the thighs are where I discovered my pain threshold. Intense, plus I can't really see what I'm accomplishing. These are times when I'd like to have eyes on my bum. The only times.

So, I'm pleased with my progress. Now, whether this is affecting my love life...well, I'm just not sure. We've alternated being sick and having periods (only her on that) and just being tired, so the opportunities have been few. As I've gotten smoother, I'm exposing the legs more often to her (is that cruel?). She's not avoiding contact with my legs in bed, but that was also true before she took me down a peg last month.

I cut my nails back to boy length last week since I'm unlikely to be attending the Transgiving festivities next weekend. The upside is that I got my guitar out for the first time in many moons. It's like riding a bike. I may forget some non-standard chords, but most of it comes right back. My middle child has become quite proficient, much more so than me, and I find her example inspiring. I taught myself over the course of many years, and after I got her started, she has taught herself a great deal more. Now I need to sit down with her and see if she can help me with my technique. She is a Beatlemaniac, and has taken to a lot of my other favorite bands as well.

I'm going to the Kentucky-Tennessee football game with my brother Saturday night. This used to be a major rivalry (the teams, not my brother and I), but Kentucky has lost every annual game for 24 years. I've been to many of them. Most weren't even close. I have no regular readers in Knoxville, so I ask that you all join me in pulling for the long forlorn Kentucky team. I will consider you all honorary Kentuckians for the day. Thank you for your support.

That's all the Odds I have, so here is the promised End.

I'm Full (of Holiday Reflection)!

I'm not boasting. I'm bursting. That is, after all, what we are celebrating in the American incarnation of Thanksgiving. Ours is a land of plenty, where complaints about all we lack are set aside for a day.

I had two big meals today. The first was largely stuff purchased at the supermarket with a few special homemade dishes. The second was a vegetarian feast, entirely crafted from scratch. I liked both, and plenty of both. I grew up with Kraft Macaroni & Cheese and Chef Boy-ar-dee Spaghetti Dinner and Hamburger Helper. Not sophisticated in our tastes. I've taken on a slightly hautier worldview since, and my tastes have expanded with them. Yet, my comfort foods still frequently fall on the white trash end of the spectrum. Nothing wrong with that if it's not the staples of one's diet, and for me, it's not. Hence, my sleek and sexy bod! Writhe in envy, mere mortals. Scalloped pineapple, broccoli cheese casserole, meat-less loaf. Mmmmm...

At both gatherings, I felt at ease. I wasn't overtly feminine (God forbid!), but my more social side was at the forefront. I felt unencumbered by the man mask I was wearing. I was relaxed and making the quips that I'm known for, connecting with my people. Comfort food for the soul. Both meals featured folks that know my secret, my brother at one, my sister-in-law at the other. At both, I nearly made veiled references that they would understand at a deeper level, and that would've been okay with them, I think. But I opted not to, figuring the missus would also get it, and not be as amused as me. I wasn't censoring myself, just being thoughtful on a very pleasant day.

I have really enjoyed the somewhat bemused but kind writings of my non-American friends on this major holiday in our self-absorption pantheon. We are a puzzlement to the rest of the world, I think. 'Salright by me. Puzzle on. We intend to continue our weirdness, and I will try to do my part with aimless writing and the occasional picture in feminine raiment. Weird to the core.

Wherever you are, I hope it was a pleasant day with lots of familial affection, holiday or not.

No More Nyquil

Nothing earth shattering to report. That'll have to wait till 2012.

Thanks to all my well-wishers. I am feeling much better. I even slept well last night without having to guzzle Nyquil. A very good sign, as the sleep is the first thing to go, and often the last to return.

I am enjoying my epilator. Well, perhaps enjoy is too strong a word. I like the results. I'm slowly making headway, as my legs are quite long and the hair is fully testosterized. I've had four lengthy sessions now, and switched to the higher speed tonight. I can take it. The lower legs, while there are still scattered hairs, feel quite smooth to the touch. No stubble! Much more pain to endure on the thighs, and much thicker hair.

I'm still epilating on the sly, not wanting to start a ruckus. The next time she asks me if I'm still shaving my legs, I'll be able to honestly answer that I haven't since my meeting. Lies of omission, a specialty of the house. Nah, I'll tell her the truth. No use turning over a new leaf if you just let it die on the vine.

My Brain Hurts

Tonight finds me sick. It's been sneaking up on me since Wednesday. I've been laying about most of the day, dozing a little. Right now, I'm a nose-blowin', soup-eatin', lozenge-suckin', mucus-spittin' (and oh, so sexy *arowr*) curmudgeoness.

I know who to blame for this. I caught this from Amy, who brought it in here when she wrote this. She went around touching everything, and you know how bad the closed ventilation system is in the blogosphere. Somebody comes on board with a cold, everyone's going to get it. At least Caroline was considerate enough to keep her hands clean while she hung out here. God knows, I don't want a norovirus. I want to keep my soup down, dammit.

Oh, no. I just realized that I'm doing the same thing. Okay, I want everyone to wipe down your cache with rubbing alcohol or a disinfectant, take some vitamin C, and don't eat any cookies off your hard drive. So sorry! Haaaaackk! Ptui.

What Keeps Me Going

What a lonely life most of us lead. That seems obvious, I guess, but like so many things, I'm slow on the uptake. I'll use myself as an example (naturally). I crave solitude. I live in a house with three kids, three dogs, three cats, and a wife. I only get to be myself when I am alone. Yet, that's not when I feel lonely. The loneliness comes when I desperately want to connect with my wife, but know that I must shut off a part of myself to do it. In a room full of friends who don't know my secret, the nearness of people I love is tainted by the necessity of being less than my whole self.

And so, the other life looms large. The time I spend alone at the computer in the wee hours of the morning are the least lonely part of my day. Aside from the freedom and comradery of my support group meetings each month, this is the entirety of Leslie's world. What a world it is.

Of course, blogging is a huge part of this, both writing and reading. The real magic, though, is in the private correspondence. I can share so much more with my penpals than I can put on a public blog. I commiserate offline with several of my favorite bloggers, but also of late, some non-bloggers have sought me out. They felt a kinship with me after reading of my issues, and I'm getting a great deal out of our shared experience. Sad to say, there are others out there having the same problems with their spouses that I am. I love that I can offer advice or handholding from my little nook. This is how I give back, one on one, to the community that has gotten me through the last two years. It's not much, but if someone reaches out to me, I want to take the time to share and console. This is what keeps me going.

The loneliness of my everyday life falls away when I am reading the latest exploits of my friends and composing responses. I will very likely never meet any of these folks in person, but I hope that I'm making their lives brighter. They surely do that for me.

A New Perspective

I'm feeling much more serene than I was this time last week. There were a couple comments on my last entries that hit home. One was from Caroline, who said, "If there is love there should be dialogue." The other was contributed anonymously from the wife of a transgendered woman. In part, she said, "Treat her as you would want to be treated if it were her who was doing the transitioning." Yes, the Golden Rule.

While not a Christian, this is a tenet I think about frequently. I like to think that I live by it for the most part. But seeing those words relating to whatever scorn I was heaping on my wife...well, it was an eye opener. My shrink has said many times that my wife and I are both incapable of seeing the other's position. Today, I am seeing my wife in a new light.

I'm feeling more forgiving of her. It makes me want to slow down and have a true conversation about our inner truths, and the externalization of mine. I'm finding that I understand the loss she has experienced, the fear of further loss. I'm not at all certain that I can mitigate that feeling in her, but being upfront about what's in my heart couldn't hurt.

I'm still not sure how I'll introduce the topic. I don't know if I can maintain my calm if she gets snippy or argumentative. Yet, I know deep down that I owe her more than I've given. She deserves a full accounting.

A Kinder, Gentler Post

Hello again. Not sure how to top that for controversy, so I'll not try.

I was very glad to have a therapy appointment today. It was probably the most emotional session I've had since my first couple of months with M, my therapist. Still didn't cry, but I felt like it would've been appropriate. I just don't cry easily. Demonstrating the depth of my emotions would be much easier if I cried, but barring that, I'm left with my fondness for large words and complex sentence structures. Not the same.

At today's session, we talked a lot about the seeming hopelessness of my situation. We discussed at some length the co-dependent nature of my marriage. I feel enormously selfish for wanting a life that scares the dickens out of my spouse. With me as principal breadwinner, she feels stuck. With our near bankrupt status, I feel stuck. We have little choice but to stay together and try to get along.

When I demonize the missus here, I am doing it to let off steam. My fondest wish, aside from being female, is to be able to carry on with my wife. We have so much in common, and one big thing stands in the way of a healthy relationship: my gender identity. She is the only woman I've ever been with. We share three kids. I don't want to leave, but I often wonder if I will have to. I don't think the status quo is going to satisfy my troubled mind. I'm not sure how long I can deny my alter ego. I do believe that my fear of conflict and my drive to feminize will ultimately be the death of my marriage. My fault for needing to change? Her fault for needing sameness? Maybe a little of both, but mostly two adults growing in different directions despite their probable best interests.

Sad Little Marionette

After my crisis of conscience Sunday night, I was feeling better Monday. Tuesday started off fine as well. Before heading off to work, I went to see if I might commandeer the computer for a minute to check my email.

Me: Oh, yeah. I have therapy tomorrow.

She: (short pause) There's just never a good time to talk about unpleasant things.

Me: Ummm...

She: So, are you planning to keep your legs shaved all winter again? I really don't like it.

Me: Well, I didn't like the eight months I left them hairy for you.

As euphoric as I felt Saturday night, that's how pissed and unhappy I was this evening at work. I've gone over and over the trajectory of the past two years. It isn't improving. The details change, but the play always ends the same way. I don't know if I have some victim pathology or martyr complex or what. Bend but don't break, and I'm surprisingly flexible.

I'm very glad that I have therapy Wednesday afternoon. I need to make some decisions.

At work tonight, I just kept thinking that I need to figure out my escape plan. I need a plan to get our finances back in order, tie up the loose ends, and just fucking go. I can't stand my little scraps of happiness being crushed. I just want to be myself for a couple months. I just want to be able to talk openly without the internal editor biting my tongue. I'd like to be able to share my feelings without them being twisted into a debasement of my marriage. Would it kill her to give me a small vacation from my brilliant disguise?

I read blogs where transwomen have worked things out with their wives. I read blogs where they divorce but remain close. I read blogs where the marriages go down in flames. I don't know what I expected from mine. As pessimistic as I am (and I am), I keep finding some hope to hang onto, and I keep getting beaten over the head with it.

If I didn't love her, I wouldn't have taken this for so long. If she didn't love me, she'd have left long ago. But I'm very tired of feeling that it's my fault. I'm tired of feeling like a warped screwup. I'm tired of feeling...tired.

I'm running out of reasons to stay.

Oh, For the Single Life...

Not what you think. Not a longing for divorce. Rather, I'm very tired of living a double life. Do you see how long it takes me to turn an amzing high into another crisis of conscience? If this were a marketable talent, I'd be on Easy Street.

I had figured...assumed...that the missus had an inkling that I might do something beyond the standard meeting, what with her prolonged absence. In conversation Sunday, it became clear that she doesn't even suspect that I might have been out and about as Leslie.

I feel like I'm violating her trust (and at least one commenter will agree wholeheartedly), that I don't deserve her trust. What I did Saturday was a low risk outing to a restaurant that had ten customers when we went in and three or four when we left. Tonight, I have a kind of sick feeling in my belly. It is a lie of omission, but I know full well the implications. This was very much against our unwritten understanding. She does not believe that public outings of any sort are risk-free. She may be wrong, but she has made herself clear.

So, I live two lives, as I have for two years. It is taking a toll on me, and, in turn, the quality of my marriage. I got away clean on this one, but it makes me feel dirty. It's another nail in the coffin. I can't (won't?) change. I need this, and it is completely at odds with my marriage. If presented with the same opportunity again, I would assuredly do the same thing. I am ready to take advantage of whatever good graces my wife retains for me.

What does this say about me?

Blissed Out

It didn't go exactly as I thought it might, but it was wonderful front to back.

The wife and kids were supposed to be leaving town around noon, pulled out at 1:45. Spent a long time on my legs, fought football traffic, and got to Lisa's about 5:00. The meeting is at 7:30, and Shannon and I both needed to get ready. Shopping? Feh.

It was easily the most leisurely dressing I've ever done. No hurry, get it right. I ran into some trouble concealing my beard shadow, not having an appropriate shade. Shannon called me on it after I'd gotten much further along and assisted me in trying to hide it. I didn't care all that much, as I felt I looked pretty darn good anyway.

Veterans of our meetings were surprised when I arrived dressed. It's only the second time in almost two years that I hadn't transformed on site. Sixteen months since my only other outing. I went with bare legs, no hosiery, so as to show off my toenails and my favorite sandals. Black knee length skirt, black ribbed sweater, tan sandals. Rockin'!

Much of the crew goes out to eat after meetings, and today was no exception. The difference was that I went along for the first time. There were eleven of us, and the waitress has handled our groups many times, so we were treated well. We had to wait at the front while they pushed tables together. Two guys at the bar were craning their necks, giving us the eyeball. I wasn't wearing my glasses (boy frames!), so I couldn't tell if there was ill will or longing or simple slack-jawed ogling. Some of us, ahem, were quite hot. I'll have evidence in a few days.

When I was being driven back to the apartment after the meal, I sat back for a while and closed my eyes and just soaked it all in. This is what it feels like to be comfortable in your skin, pleased with the look that you're presenting to the world. My eyes are welling up again writing this. I was euphoric, and I'm still pretty close to that now. True joy doesn't hang with me much, but I could get used to having it around.

Thanks to Lisa for being a gracious and kind hostess, and to Tina, Shannon, and Sylvia for being the best friends this girl could ask for. You kids are swell.

All Systems Go

My wife really came through. She hunted down another ticket, and she will be taking the kids out of town around noon Saturday. So, the meeting will happen, and I really need it after missing last month's.

I'm being much more "out" around the wife of late, and without seeming to cause any upset. She shows no indication of having an issue with my stubbly legs in bed. I'm making my witty little asides about my crossdressing and not being shot down. She seems to be accepting that I need to do this. I can only hope that it lasts. Not walking on eggshells--that's a welcome change.

We went to a big shindig tonight, a private school fundraiser. Very swanky, black tie optional. We had no money to give, but we hung with several friends. So many beautiful women, so well dressed. I really must get a pair of boots. My sister-in-law, D, came along as well. You may recall that she knows my secret. I sat next to her and chatted much of the night.

Early on, I confided to her that the hardest part about being there for me was the envy. She laughed hard at this, but she understood the truth of it. She and I proceeded to point out fashion don'ts, such as the bereted woman that I said was from the French Resistance. D has an alert eye for Visible Panty Lines, which I'll forever notice now. Later on, we talked about shoes. She recommended some places that she knew had larger selections of big girl shoes. I told her about free shipping to Payless stores, and their in-store returns.

At one point, D and another woman were talking about consignment and Goodwill shopping. The other woman turns to me and says, "You must be very bored to be listening to us talk about buying blouses. We're going to talk bras next!" I wanted to say that I was fascinated and taking mental notes, but left it with a shrug and a smile. D knew the truth and continued to speak loud enough to keep me included. Very sweet.

I've been checking stuff off my prep list for the meeting. Got the arms bleached, right in front of the missus. She complained a bit about the acrid smell, and asked some general questions about the routine, but said nothing dismissive or debasing. Gotta work on the wig still, and get an outfit squared away. I have ideas, but I may have to dig into her collection. Hell, I offered her my short silk slip tonight when she didn't have one. She declined, but I think I can borrow something from her now, right? Right!

On a Scale From 1 to 10....

In an email exchange with my pal Sylvia, I told her that it looked like the planets were aligning, and I would be able to attend Saturday's meeting. Now I hear rumors that Venus has been thrown out of its orbit. Without Venus, no planetary alignment matters much to this girl.

I have heard the scolds of twin Zen mistresses of epilation, Melissa and Ms. Shandy, and I have taken heed. As long as the possibility of bare stems on Saturday exists, I will wait to begin epilating. I did do a small test patch on my thigh. It was not nearly as unpleasant as I had feared, or as noisy. It sounds a lot like an electric hedge trimmer, and that's essentially what it is in my case. It did leave the area red and irritated for a couple days, so I am well-warned. It will be the blade if the meeting is in my future.

Back to Venus... For the longest time, I believed that my schedule, or rather, my wife's schedule, stood in the way of my support group meeting. Then, earlier this week, it sounded like she would be taking the kids to Louisville for the day. Jackpot! Now, I'm hearing other plans, and I'm having trouble getting a straight answer from her. She asked me to assign a numerical value to my need to go to my meeting. I said seven. Don't want to sound desperate, even if I am.

What it all comes down to, and I told her this, is that I have a long list of things I need to do in order to attend the meeting in the manner to which I am accustomed. Leg shaving, wig combing, brow tweezing, car packing, arm hair bleaching, outfit choosing, accessory considering, time's-a-wasting. If I'm not destined to go, I'd just as soon not go through all of this. Yes, it's worth it, but only with the proper payoff.

Sylvia added another layer to my dilemma tonight. She wrote that a pre-meeting shopping trip is being planned by my posse, and I am invited. This might well be an en femme adventure as well, only my second. Oh, I want to go. I really want to go.

Privacy? What Privacy?

Adjustments are imminent.

Last winter, my first with bare legs, there were plentiful opportunities to take care of hair maintenance. My wife had a part-time job during the day, and so would be out of the house several times a week. That allowed me to soak in the tub and do a proper job of shaving. I estimate that I shaved forty or fifty times, and never with anyone in the house.

That has all changed this year. I took the hair off on October 20th, and I've had one other sit down since then (which did not get nearly the results of the maiden voyage). Otherwise, it's been hit-or-miss standing in the shower. The untranned eye would guess that I have mange.

You see, the wife now works from home mostly. I work evenings, so midday would be perfect for me, but she's always here! Now, there's an epilator on the way (not here yet!). With the thunderous racket involved, there will be no avoiding some manner of talk on the subject. I'm not sure how I'll broach this, but I want to epilate before my monthly meeting on Saturday, so there is no time to quibble.

Why not do hair removal when she's in the house? It's a mixture of respect for her feelings and fear of potential conflict. I've never wanted my hair removal habits to be "in her face". She wants to maintain some pretense of my uber-masculine nature, and if that makes her happy on some level, who am I to take that away? If you know your husband is upstairs shaving his legs right this minute, suspension of disbelief flies out the window.

All of this means that I will have to be unusually forthright with the missus, and she'll have to listen to the roar of dual-head tweezers doing the unspeakable to her "husband." It's gonna get interesting real soon, methinks.

Miss Alainie

Perhaps I should elaborate and clarify the last entry.

I love my wife. We have an immense compatibility. We agree on politics, religion, humor, pop culture, most everything that matters. We've known one another for 28 years. She's had much more influence than my parents, at least based on time together.

She just has a little blind spot, that's all. She is so sure and confident of her own identity that she just can't imagine someone who isn't. She does now believe that I have a legitimate gender issue, but I don't think she even begins to fathom it. I do go on about her at times in this space, and I will concede that the gender issue is unlikely to be resolved in any mutually satisfactory way. Will it be the death of us? Don't know...

Other news--I should be receiving an epilator in the next several days. An anonymous benefactor (anonymous to you), a sweet online friend, took pity on me and wanted me to be able to follow my dreams. Thanks to my fairy godmother, I should be posting reports soon about hanks of hair being yanked out by the roots, me smiling through my tears. A heartfelt thanks to she-whose-name-shall-not-be-spoken.

The wife still hasn't said a word about my hairlessness. Maybe she won't...yeah, right. We still intertwine and spoon at night like always, and she hasn't been avoiding my legs like she did last winter. I'm hopeful that the stubble is her major qualm, and the epilator will take care of that more effectively.

What else? Several people have read my blog front to back in the last couple weeks. I track my traffic with Google Analytics, and I find it fascinating, stathead that I am. The more entries I add to this blog, the less I can imagine the hardy soul who would dive into the whole thing. Yet, there they are. I've corresponded with a girl in Florida who spent two days on the task. Yesterday, someone in the Dallas area went through it in an hour or so. These folks probably run marathons in their spare time. I know I'm endlessly fascinating, ripe for use as a case study in an abnormal psych journal, but still, attention of that magnitude is quite gratifying.

I just wish they'd write me so I could discuss it with them! My favorite subject: me! Hell, I'd love for anyone to write me. I'm sweet as a clementine, and much less messy. I correspond regularly with ten or so gals, but there's always room for more.

I have no more stomach for self-promotion, so I'll leave it there.

Oh, the title? Say it out loud a couple times.

I Must Be Up To No Good

My wife occasionally slips up and expresses some interest in my internal life. Sometimes curiosity, sometimes accusation.

Yesterday, she spoke with one of her friends about Second Life. I know next to nothing about it myself, and my wife knows even less. I have read on blogs by Jill and Veronique, and maybe Sharon (memory comes and goes), that it was very useful to them in learning some of the social skills involved in being female in our society.

The missus, though, sees danger in people portraying anyone other than their "real" selves online. She assumes that there is a sleazy element, people cruising for virtual sex, or molesters, or I don't know what. The point is that she is highly suspicious of people's motives in these circumstances. I think this extends beyond the internet into the real world. She sees me and my friends as being duplicitous, trying to fool others into believing we are something that we are not. I wonder if she is afraid of clowns.

I spend about three hours online after work most nights. While sharing her opinions on Second Life, she asked me if I was involved in Second Life late at night when I should be sleeping. I told her the general truth about my activities, that I'm writing and reading. Blogs and emails. She wants to believe that something scandalous is going on, I think. I guess some of the content I write and read might scandalize her, but she's an easy mark.

I wish that I didn't feel so compelled to sit at the computer so much. However, my "second life" as Leslie is largely nonexistent in the corporeal world. One evening a month, plus underdressing, is the full extent of Leslie outside the ether. My only room for expansion is online. And so, I tear myself away from the TV-typewriter with great reluctance each night, stepping away from the only place where I am me. It's the place that I feel most alive, and I long to return when I'm away.

I'm a Daisy!

More debriefing from therapy...

I don't recall how it came up, but my therapist, M, told me that she thinks of me as a daisy. This is not at all like the man who mistook his wife for a hat. Rather, she was pointing out that I bloom every year, that I present a smiling face to the world, that I'm not flashy or showy, but pretty nonetheless. My blooms stay fresh all season. I sit back and watch the world go by, not calling attention to myself, but still getting noticed by the sensitive types.

The roses of the world, on the other hand, are all show. Yeah, they're beautiful, but only for a fleeting while. Plus, they come with thorns. Flash and drama and a quick fade for their blooms. Nope, not for me. I want to endure.

I'm pretty sure this is my first experience being compared to a flower. Well, my wife might have thought of me as a narcissus, which is how she thinks of all men who dress as women.

Regular readers know that I'm a sucker for a metaphor. I guess my counselor knows that too.

Keep Your Sanity. Shave Your Legs.

Superb comments on the last one. Thanks, ladies!

Today was therapy, the bestest day of all. Not surprisingly, I was in a terrific mood. Therapy always makes me feel better, and hairless legs put me over the top.

My therapist, M, was very pleased that I took control of my body and did what I needed to do. I talked some about the difficulties I had coming to my decision, the hesistation, the fear of confrontation. The missus still hasn't said anything, and might not even realize yet. She has a session with her counselor later today (Thursday), and I was kinda hoping that she would see the changes right before she talks to a professional. I joked at my session that since I was the one that sent her over the edge and into counseling, the least she could do is to discuss me in her session.

I asked M to tell me about her impressions of me when I first came to her office almost two years ago. She said that she could see how desperate I was, that I was a very confused person, and deeply depressed. She says that I am clearly much happier now, that I smile a lot. She believes that my blog saved me, that it gave me an outlet to ponder my situation and think it through. She also credited my support group and the friends I've made through the group. I added her to the list, but she modestly demurred.

Also discussed was whether I've thought through what I might say if the hammer comes down at home. I have, and I practiced a bit of my argument with her. She gave a very constructive critique, and I have been steered in a whole 'nother direction. I was going to change the subject somewhat, but M argued that if she wants to talk about me, I should take advantage of that. Talk about controlling my own body. When she makes her standard point about how I should want to be attractive to my mate, I come back with my need to feel attractive. Ultimately, it comes down to a basic feminist tenet: It's my body, and I get final say on the subject.

My title today was M's verbatim advice via email six weeks ago. A little slow on the follow-through, perhaps, but I got it right eventually.

Lessons Learned

This entry is as much notes to self as infotainment, so don't shoot the blogger, she's writing the best she can.

Bit the bullet today. The deed is done, the die is cast, assorted cliches indicating finality. I am enjoying the fruits of my labor at this moment. My skirt feels incredible with bare legs. I can feel everything without that friction reducing layer. Bring on the friction!

Last winter, my first time shaving my legs, I shaved two or three times a week. Over four months, that's around fifty times. I got a better result today than any time last winter, even without a fresh blade. A little bit visualization, maybe, but also having a clue this time around. So, with truly minimal fanfare, What I Have Learned About Shaving Legs:

1) Don't go over the same patch twice without reapplying shaving creme. I learned this on my face about a month ago, as I went for closer and closer shaves. It's probably okay if you look like Charles Bronson, but that's not my goal.

2) Looooong strokes are best (that's what she said). Cut long, even swaths to get cleaner results and less razor burn.

3) Witch Hazel applied liberally (I do everything liberally!) immediately after leaving the tub. My legs didn't get angry at all, and I did a lot of scraping.

4) Last winter, I depended a lot on sight to detect missed areas. This did not work well. I have learned to find the remnants by sense of touch now, and the improvement was remarkable.

Anyway, useful info to me. I hope you got something out of it as well. Wednesday is therapy day, though I can't imagine having much to complain about now, unless the missus starts in on me when I come to bed. I wish she could enjoy this sensation with me.

Enough Already

The wait is over. I know that my hesitation has been driving some folks to distraction. The time has come. My wife is taking my boy on an overnight field trip Monday/Tuesday, so I'll have the house to myself when the girls are at school. The clearcutting will occur one of those two days.

Saturday night, my wife and I had a little tryst. I think she already sensed that I'd done some work on my legs. She may even have thought that I'd shaven them once. She said nothing about it, and it didn't get in the way at all. A splendid time was had by all. She gave no hint of upset, and it didn't take her out of the game, so I have to conclude that it won't be a dealbreaker to finish the job. That's a big leap, to be sure, but anyone who has read me for any time knows that I act on impulse frequently, or at least with minimal information. Why should this be any different?

Act now, pay later, I always say. If bridges have been burned, you'll be the first to know.

Girdling My Loins

Stupid observation #34: Wearing a girdle makes your walk more feminine.

This week, I've added an item to my everyday underdressing. Can you guess? A girdle! How'd'ya know?

I've had a longline girdle in my possession for decades. (It was procured from my mother's drawer in my teen years, and probably dates from the early sixties. No, I'm not proud of myself, and no, I'm not gonna return it.) It lives in a box under my dresser with several pairs of panties and sundry scanties. It hasn't seen much action since the fetish aspect of all this disappeared about two years ago. But a light bulb went off with the arrival of much cooler weather, and a new ensemble was born.

I've been consciously working on a feminine walk for almost two years. I break into it when I'm alone, or at least think I am. It's very much a work in progress, and would look like a parody to the untranned eye. (pun intended) The addition of the girdle beneath my boy duds has made my gait much more natural and, I think, feminine. It's actually an effort not to have a womanly walk in its friendly confines. Delightful! In addition, it is excellent for controlling the naughty bits.

Speaking of controlling my naughty bits, the wife doesn't seem to have noticed the crew cut on my legs yet. She did ask me on the phone last night if I had anything I wanted to tell her, and that sometimes means that she wants me to come clean about something. But she was with the kids on her end of the line, so I don't think she would have been inviting a conversation on that topic. We've shared the bed twice now in my current state, and I would think that it feels a little stubbly, yet no comments or accusations. Could she be keeping an epiphany to herself? If you knew her, you'd say that it's not bloody likely. Long-lived outrage would be a sounder bet, so I don't think she's caught up with my antics just yet.

Point of Unlikely Return

"The thing that disturbs you is only the sound of the low spark of high-heeled boys."
Traffic

It's not a full commitment yet, but I won't be able to hide my intent now. Today I trimmed those leg hairs to within a quarter inch of their lives. The missus will pick up on this quickly, as her T-dar is on full alert. I don't intend to hide it from her. Frankly, she just needs to talk to her therapist about why she is so determined to control this aspect of my being. I gave her eight months of hair, and I'm ready for my follicular sabbatical.

I suppose that I wouldn't necessarily have to follow up with a razor now, but, in truth, she'll hate this as much as she would smooth legs. The razor will make one of us happy anyway.

I still think an epilator would be the way to go, but since I have been raising my voice repeatedly about practicing some austerity as a household, I hardly think that I can spend $50-100 on myself just now. That's just inviting howls of hypocrisy. Gotta practice what I preach, right? It was all I could do today to stop myself from taking advantage of the last day of BOGO at Payless. So many temptations, so little time (and money).

Having trimmed my leg hair, I can now take off my glasses and almost see again what my bare legs look like. In a word, blurry. Ah, but nearly hairless.

Naked Gams Ahead!

Okay, so I've reached critical mass. Some of you already realized that, I think, so I might be the last to know. GD is threatening to capsize my little boat.

What I need is some information from my many sisters. I want to epilate. Melissa (a sweetheart) has recommended the Emjoi Emagine, a dual head monster in the $100 range. I'm sure it is a tool to be reckoned with (that's what she said!), but that's a lot of cabbage when I'm not sure I can endure it.

Does anyone else out there in blogworld have a favorite model that they'd recommend? Leave a comment, or send an email if you prefer. I'd like to order something in the next couple days. I think I can bear another weekend as a bear, but it ain't gonna be fun.

A Fork in the Road

Have you reached the point
where you must choose,
between what you've lost
and what you stand to lose?
"High Time" Michael Penn

Now my beloved Reds are truly and completely done for the year. Can bare legs be far behind?

There are hard choices coming. I unequivocably know that I must follow through and remove the hair. I think about it all the time. I get goose bumps imagining it. Whispering in the back of my head, though, is a voice that reminds me of the unrest this will cause in the home. I've seen it firsthand and I'm not thrilled to be crossing that threshold again. Will my wife tolerate it or might she consider it the last straw? We're getting on very well currently, and this need of mine will surely ruin that. I have no desire to hurt her with this, but it seems unavoidable. She won't soften her heart about this, and I don't see myself walking away from the razor.

Which is more important, my wholeness or the health of my marriage? History tells me it really is an "either/or" question. After four months of leg shaving last winter, the missus was at the end of her rope. She couldn't bear being around my uncovered legs. I slept in lounge pants all winter. I know it's not her choice to make, but she does get to choose how she reacts to it. She's made it very clear that it's a nonstarter for her. Does being myself have to be selfish? Quite possibly.

I'm trying to hold off a bit longer, but I'm beginning to feel a bit manic. I'm accustomed to the occasional anxiety attack, and I live with gender dysphoria much of the time. Mania, though, is unusual for me. I'm feeling less inhibited, and inhibition has been a way of life for me. I don't drink because I don't like to feel out of control. Yet, that's increasingly the way I feel. I could easily set aside my inhibitions and go out for a drive around the city in a skirt and heels, male self intact above the waist. Is there a worse social choice than presenting half male, half female in public? What would a police stop result in? I don't think I would do it, but the ability to visualize it so clearly and not to fear it is not normal for me. I'm feeling a lot like I did two winters ago when GID began overtaking me, though without the depression, at least for now. I did lots of risky things then, completely disregarding clear thinking and sound judgement.

Living in limbo isn't going to work for me. Wherever these intense feelings come from, they aren't going to go away unheard and unanswered. They demand my attention. I'd like to find a way to present my needs in a way that would make it tolerable to the wife. What that would look like is anyone's guess.

Earnest Ramblings

Not sure what my aim is here, so I'll just dive in.

In anticipation of therapy sessions for both of us this week, I made a point of talking to the missus about our status. She was very surprised and sorry that I had been left depressed and worried by our late night "hating it all" chat of three weeks ago. She confirmed my recent suspicion that the lack of affection was a symptom of her own stress. I guess she shared this with her therapist, because she later told me that she had been reminded to check in with her husband from time to time. I'm often confronted with the fact that I'm not on her radar at all. I don't mind being down the list a bit, but I do want to be on the list.

I had a lovely appointment with my counselor. She recently let her office help go in order to trim costs, so I feel freer now to be myself in her office. This means l dress in something that femmes up nicely by changing into heels and maybe adding a little lipstick. I am much more relaxed and communicative like this. She is always encouraging, despite the fact that I surely look ridiculous with my balding pate. Yes, half-assed is better than none.

We talked extensively about my trials on the marriage front and fighting the depression that results. She was a little surprised that I haven't shaved my legs yet. Still a bit early, but I am SO ready. Perhaps it feels more real now, but it's not causing me distress the way it did in the late summer. I know that my legs will be bare soon, and that knowledge is enough for now.

I'm still trying to decide how to approach the spouse on this. I know you've all read the entirety of my blog(!), but just in case, a little background. In fall 2007, and again in April 2008, I announced my intention to denude my legs. Both times, massive conflict ensued, and I backed down. Just call me Khruschev. In November of last year, I decided that I must follow my heart. I made a decision to shave my legs, without notification. I jumped into the deep end with no lifeguard on duty, and I swam. The result was the happiest winter I can remember. My true self finally got a chance to blossom. Of course, the repercussions were extensive, and intimate contact had pretty well disappeared by the third month. She tried to deal with it, but ultimately had to pull back. I guess I can expect more of the same this time around, except without the trying.

Last year's deal, my suggestion, was to be bare for four months, and hirsute for the eight warm months. I waited for a counter proposal which never came, so I did what I said I would. I've given the missus no indication that the deal has been rescinded, but she seems to holding out hope. If she wants to propose something other than abstaining completely from being myself, I'll listen. There will be no signed contracts this time, for certain.

I trimmed the hair way back yesterday, but the blade will have to wait a few more weeks. Still might get an epilator. I'm totally stoked, dude! The nearness of the goal is making the dysphoria fade. Good riddance.

Just My Imagination Running Away With Me

Alright, settle in for a slightly happier tale than most of late.

The wife spoke to me just over two weeks ago about hating everything that I was doing, regarding the TG stuff. That she notices much and hates all that she notices. I think I failed to mention the most cutting thing she said (an oversight!). She said that she had come to realize that not all of my embraces were about how sexy I think she is, or how much I love her. She had begun to recognize some hugs as me clinging to her like a lifeline. I didn't realize that this was a secret from her. What's wrong with that? Better or worse, right? I'm not allowed to feel vulnerable? Or, at least, not supposed to demonstrate it?

Okay, that's not the happier stuff, as you may have guessed. I just wanted to record that before I go on. I need to monsterfy her sometimes before I cut her some slack.

There has been a blatant (I thought) lack of affection since the talk. Today, however, after I took my boy to a scouting event in the afternoon and evening, she was very lovey and demonstrative. She wanted to go out, dress up a little, spend some quality time. She pointedly asked me before we left whether certain requisite items were stocked in the bedside table. Well, I knew where this night was going!

We had a nice meal and good conversation. When we got back out to the car, she planted a big kiss on me. The rest I'll leave to your fantasies.

I guess what I'm wondering is what I've been witnessing the last two weeks. Was there in fact a withholding of affection, or were other stresses besides me to blame? The fight with the school system was escalating during the period, culminating in a big meeting Thursday. Perhaps major stress plays on her moods the same way it would on me. Heaven knows that I withdraw regularly when I start sensing the end of my rope is near. Should I attribute the same fallabilities, the same humanity, to her actions? In this case, I think I must.

So, for now, the paranoia is back under control. See? Happier.

CD vs TG: I'd Rather Fight Than Switch

This weekend's theme around T-Central seems to be whether crossdressers should be considered women or not. I'll not weigh in on that. I only know about myself. Well, I think I know, but I need to analyze it fully first. Come on! It'll be fun!

I've never really thought of myself as a woman. I just always hated being male. Resigned to it, but not at all happy with it. I remember consciously wishing to change at age six or seven, but I think it was there unconsciously even before that. The definition of dysphoria is dissatisfaction, which fits me very well.

I am dissatisfied with my gender role. Obviously! I bend to my wife's will far too much. Maybe you've noticed. Henpecked? Pussy whipped? Naturally submissive? Bingo! Give that girl a cherut! I am compliant, but compensate by being passive aggressive. These are not "manly" characteristics. In matters sexual, I rarely initiate. I get the male role by default when we're underway, but that doesn't stop me from fantasizing other, very different things.

The reality of my situation is that I am a crossdresser because that is the best option open to me. It would take only a small push, some status change in some area of my life, to send me over into some manner of transition. I have no problem picturing myself living full-time as a woman. I picture it a lot, to be frank.

I'm not in any hurry to trade in my bat and balls for a catcher's mitt. "Mr. Johnson" has served me well. We've had lots of great times together, in both solo and tandem acts. Yet, I wouldn't hesitate to say goodbye if an alternative appeared. I could have a great time with an innie instead of an outie. Hmm, that kind of ambivalence will never get me a letter for SRS, will it?

Deep down, I want to be a woman. That doesn't make me a woman. I suspect that I never will be. Still, I keep trying to make progress toward that lofty goal. Maybe that one next thing will be adequate to slake the thirst I have. Just a little further, and I can be satisfied, perhaps.

Phoric? Benephoric? Cisphoric? What's the opposite of dysphoric?

Peaceful Queasy Feeling

Emotions, my emotions anyway, continue to puzzle me. I'm getting better at reading others, but I'm strangely disconnected from what I feel all too often.

I was just reading some comments and emails, and things just came together suddenly. Maybe this is what feminine intuition feels like. My epiphany is that I think the missus is going to go for "The Ultimatum" when leg shaving time comes around. Her recent behavior, shifting from seemingly tolerant to hates all of it, strikes me as a purposeful distancing from me. I suspect she's pulling away emotionally in preparation for a physical parting. No proof, mind you, but it feels like it's there nonetheless.

The subject of what she hates about my Leslieness has not come up again since our talk last week. She has been deeply involved in both her part-time job and her fight with the school system. I can't go into details, but she is broadening her attack into new and exciting areas. By which I mean, she's an ornery cuss with a big chip on her shoulder. Don't cross her, she'll make you sorry. I wonder how much of this stuff is her hostility toward my issues being directed at other targets. That only makes sense if I'm the center of the universe, I suppose. Not everything is about me.

It's just a sinking feeling that came on quite suddenly, but the pieces are there. I just don't know if I'm combining them with the right formula. Several explanations are possible and I've just latched onto the worst one. Paranoia will destroy ya, the Kinks sang. On the other hand, it allows me to prepare for the worst. Said like a true pessimist.

Tired of Trying

"It doesn't matter to you. It matters to me."
"So Cruel" U2

The progress was an illusion. I thought that tolerance was the new watchword, that inroads had been made. Nope. Nothing much has changed.

The missus was up when I came in from work, 1:30am Friday (well, technically Saturday). This is never a good sign. Just like last week on our walk, it was clear that talking was the primary motivator for the unusual behavior. She wore me down with minutiae about her struggles with the school district, me patiently listening, and thinking that I want to be winding down now, not tensed up.

After roughly an hour, the other shoe finally dropped. What did your counselor say about your dysphoria? Should I be expecting anything shocking? ("Anything shocking" is her euphemism for shaving my legs.) Um...I don't think so. (Backpedalling already. Grow a spine, Leslie!) Well, your expression when you say that tells me that you're holding something back. I don't know.

You get the gist. I wasn't prepared for a talk, and it showed. She proceeded to share with me that she's noticed that I'm doing a lot of things that she hates. She's kept silent about them, but she sees them and thinks I'm taking huge risks. For instance, keeping my toenails polished with an almost clear color might be questioned by the kids. She didn't go into the rest of her mental list, but I got the idea that it was extensive.

This was all discussed very quietly in even tones. She was proud not to have brought these things up for so long, to allow me my space. There is so much I need to say about that.

I thought that she was starting to get it. I knew she was seeing things, like an eyelash curler out on the bathroom sink, or the toenail polish, or the pantyhose hanging on the back of the bathroom door. I figured her silence meant that she was coming to grips with the accoutrements of my sartorial quirks. I saw the middle ground, so long sought, coming into focus. We could learn to live with this. Alas, no. She still hates all of it. Her words. Calmly spoken, but hers.

I have had the rug pulled out from under me. I don't know if we can make this work. If she will not come to understand that this need of mine won't be cured by changing or upping an anti-depressant (yes, she strongly advocated this), there may not be much future for us. If every aspect of my feminine self seems weird and unnatural to her, if I have to climb back into the box, I cannot stay for long. If I have to suppress this thing in me, it will begin to ooze out in the worst possible ways, perhaps costing me my job or my family. I've seen it overtake me before, and I was lucky to get past it with only marital discord and weight loss.

If she hates the Leslie in me, doesn't she just hate me?

What really bothers me is that I have been a markedly better husband the last year. I have taken a greater, more active interest in my family. I've done much better on gifting occasions, giving with more thought and less hurry. I have been demonstrably affectionate with her, in ways that I have never been, and I meant it. She was being less hostile about my inner female, and didn't mean it. Not a great trade. Give more, get nothing but false hope.

This will all have to be addressed, of course. I'm much too raw to attempt it now. Now, I'm just unburdening my heart here. Thanks for listening.

Succinct Wisdom

"I loved you more than I can tell,
But now it's stomping time."
"My Rival" Steely Dan

Badly in need of some good news, I was awakened this morning by my seldom used cell phone. My shoes were in! Shopping is great, but the arrival of your chosen items is headier stuff. I managed to pick them up on the way to work. Tried them on much later. One pair I love(!), the other has a lot of positives, very pretty. Tonight, I'm painting my toenails with my favorite mauve shade. On Thursday, I have a counseling session, and I think I'll model the shoes for her. We do things like that often. I'm free to be Leslie in whatever way I desire, however incongruous it might appear.

Hair removal had already been on my mind, but the sarcastic discouragement from the wife sent me to a whole 'nother level. Last winter's leg shaving let me find some equilibrium in an otherwise tough time. I really felt that I had found the plateau where I could tolerate the male stuff. The previous winter had been a very dark time. The longing to do more led me to engage in what passes for risky behavior in my timid world. But mostly, I just felt completely out of control, being driven by outside forces. I don't savor that feeling. For instance, I hardly ever drink for that reason. I like to have my wits about me, and feel that I'm running my own life, however far from the truth that might be.

So, I was feeling very dark Tuesday night, pre-shoes. I wrote to my therapist, reminding her that I've been writing extensively, and she might want to have a look at the blog before I come in. On Wednesday morning, she sent me a tiny little response. Wordy wisdom is fine, but it requires a long attention span. Succinct wisdom is truly a gift. Having read my latest blogs, my therapist managed to say it all in six words, two sentences. "Keep your sanity. Shave your legs." Now that's advice you can use. Between the new shoes and the new commitment to do what I need to do for my sanity, I'm feeling a lot better.

Not Looking Good For the Home Team

I am so tired of writing about this issue, but no amount of writing makes it go away. You, dear reader, may well be tired of it too. Only your hairdresser knows for sure. Read on at your own peril.

Finally feeling better after my support group meeting. I didn't feel like gender dysphoria was crushing me. I thought I might have some relief for a few days.

Today, Labor Day, we had some family over for my boy's birthday. We had the kid party last week, this one a quiet one for adults. We started the day cleaning like piranhas on a cow carcass, but less gentle. We don't do a lot of hosting, mostly out of embarrassment. Cesspool would be a step up for us. Panic allowed us to make some real headway on the environs. We can keep social services away for another month now.

It was a pleasant gathering, unusually well organized and executed by us. Got everything put back in its place afterward. The missus said she'd like to take a walk tonight after the kids were in bed. Fine by me, I need the exercise and like the company.

We walked a couple miles, and talked at length. Why is your knee bothering you? Well, I wore heels for three hours Saturday night. You'll be sorry when you have to have laparoscopy. That kind of banter, nothing heavy. I welcome that.

Then she asked, finally, about my recent bout with dysphoria. I had mentioned it more than once in the previous week, but no conversation had resulted. She was ready now. She wondered if I had talked to my therapist about it, what she had to say. I haven't seen her since it got bad. I'll be going Thursday. Is this about you wanting to shave your legs like last fall? Well, I am thinking about it but it's not the only thing. You know, that really worked out well for you last year.

My heart sank. I thought maybe this year would be different. I've been thinking that I'd go with an epilator this time, so that stubble would be less of an issue for both of us. I guess it will be the least of the issues. Last year, after several blowups on the subject, I just decided to go for it and face the consequences. It was very nearly a dealbreaker. I was starting to consider apartments, and distancing myself emotionally from her. Of course, she found and read my blog at about that same time. A very ugly period.

We got through it. By Christmas, I was as happy as I've ever been at that time of year. She was muddling along. She made an attempt to continue being intimate, even though she wasn't enthusiastic. By March, my self imposed deadline to stop shaving, we had gone about six weeks without "relations". So, that happy slice of life is what she was referring to.

Here's the deal. I desperately want to be able to wear clothing that bares my (bare) legs to the world. It likely dates back to my childhood. My mother wore dresses and skirts five days a week. She worked for insurance companies, and in the 60's and 70's, that was the dress code. Hemlines, hosiery, and heels are my gold standard. Less than that feels like less than full expression of myself. The infrequency of my dressing makes the need for complete immersion all the more critical to me. Cold weather is my best chance for fulfillment.

Sadly, it appears that a middle ground, a more understanding compromise, is not forthcoming. It's a tribute to my naivete that I keep building up my hopes each time the tide comes in and destroys what I've put together.

I'm tired of having to write this piece. I should be past this by now. She should be past this by now. Didn't I keep my word that I'd grow it back last spring? Nope, not good enough. Let's go through the old meat grinder again this year and see if we can survive it again.

Yep, Me Again

A promise is a promise. I said tomorrow, and tomorrow is now today, I think, so here is a new pic.

I'll not actively downplay any aspect of this, as I have chided others for making preemptive first strikes on their own images. I will note that I look absolutely blissful. I'm not accustomed to closeups. I tend to believe that I look more palatable at a distance.

If you look closely, you'll see a necklace belonging to my wife around my neck. I had her blessing to wear it; the necklace was not purloined! It's a serpentine chain, more fragile than the box chain she lent me before. Of course, I was in boy mode that night, so a more delicate chain was the right choice for this event.

Let's see...what else? Oh, the wig got a lot more attention from me before the meeting and it shows here. Love your wig, and it will love you.

As usual, thanks to Tina for capturing my pulchritude so well. Her GG friend, Lisa, also took a couple of images, which are still forthcoming. If I like something, I'll share. Thanks to all for the encouraging comments. I can't tell you how much your support means to me. I hope I give as good as I get.