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.