A Thought For Penny

Some things, you just never want to have to write. This is one of those.

Saturday night, I received a cryptic email hinting at bad news, but without any specifics. After a day of text tag, I was able to make the phone call. I learned that my friend, Penny Perfect, had taken her own life on Saturday. We see this all too often in our community, but I'm not going to dwell on that. Those are statistics; Penny was a sweet, thoughtful, timid person.

I think I got as close to Penny as anyone online. We corresponded frequently, and I even convinced her to share an online chat late one night. She was terrified, but I think I put her at ease before it was over.

She spent more time in her shell than out, but she desperately wanted to give something to the TG community. Toward that end, I assisted her on a long project creating a web site, TransScribbled. It was a compendium of links to sites that would provide information and support to folks like us. Penny did all the heavy lifting. I suggested a few sites, gave feedback on the design of the pages, and did all the proofreading. It was launched through a post on Meg's blog, and Penny was very discouraged by the response, or lack thereof.

We bonded over the difficulties of having social anxiety. She had it much worse than me, but I knew the sensations she felt, the panic, the distance. I spoke the language. We soon found that we shared musical interests as well. She shared some Tom Waits files with me, and I made several recommendations on artists and albums. We both like a fair degree of dissonance.

Penny took her blog private after the TG/TS wars started flaring up. She found the nasty battles very upsetting, to the point that she feared that making comments would lead the harpies back to her. She stopped commenting, and that was a shame, as she had a gift for saying just the right thing, something I envied. She eventually started commenting again here and there anonymously, signing them "pp".

I spoke with Penny's wife, Aeify, for nearly a half hour Sunday night. She had a companion blog to Penny's, called A Perfect Luv. Whenever those two wrote about each other, you could feel the intensity of their love. They were the real deal, I think.

Aeify wanted me to know that Penny thought the world of me. This last summer, when I was pulling away from all my online friends, Penny was one of them. I have since been slowly trying to rebuild bridges, but Penny had not been among those. She sent me a nice note after Melissa's death, giving her sympathies, but that exchange didn't end up leading anywhere. I feel like I failed Penny. My head knows that I probably wouldn't have changed anything, but my heart differs. I could've been a much better friend to her.

Keep a good thought or prayer for Aeify. Penny adored her, and I can attest to her character after speaking to her. She will be needing a lot of support. You can write to her at aperfectluv at gmail.com.

That's my Penny, for your thoughts. Godspeed, hon.

I Feel Pretty and Witty and Gay

Feeling pretty full of myself today, looking at my pics from Saturday's Transgiving meeting. Just plain feeling pretty, too. My external efforts at transforming myself for an evening are bearing fruit. What you see here is very close to the way I have seen myself in my head, a standard that I have been approaching steadily for some time.

Did I mention that I felt pretty?

Frankly, I don't know how I could function living every day as Leslie. It took me two weeks to figure out this outfit. Some parts were still being changed just before I left the house. If this were a daily thing, I suppose that the perfectionist in me wouldn't be so strong. When it's only once a month, a fashion misjudgement lingers for a long time.

The outfit: The boots are new from Payless, $50 list price, bought for $23. The black skirt was bought last Christmas from the clearance racks at Macy's for $7 and change, finally getting a public wearing. The top (Kentucky blue!) was borrowed at the last second from my wife's drawer. The pendant likewise.

The dinner was a smashing success. We had 27 in attendance, possibly the largest group we've ever had. The one hangup was a Kentucky football game. The stadium is about a mile from our meeting site, and our street is a major post-game exit artery. About a half hour before meeting time, the game ended, and the street became one-way. I am accustomed to arriving early, and it was doubly good to be early Saturday. At meeting time, we still had only about eight people present, and we began delaying the start time. People began trickling in, telling tales of being two blocks away and then detoured, spending 45 to 60 minutes in game traffic. Yikes!

So, the meal got a late start, but the bird was terrific, and the company was better. There were a bunch of first-timers, and I have to think that most left with a very good impression. Sylvia and Cassie did a great job organizing the event.

I was brimming with confidence. I knew that I looked good, and the confidence followed. There was no hurry to shut down the dinner, so I got to stay later than usual, and though she called me toward the end, my wife did not seem upset by my delay.

Here's a question: if one feels compelled to analyze one's feelings of joy, does it diminish the joy itself? Does the effort to quantify feelings necessarily lessen their impact? I sense instinctively that joy should be an absolute, a simple yes or no prospect. But I am ill-equipped emotionally to just let it happen. Even in the midst of a great evening, I was reflecting and almost observing myself to gauge my emotions. Bottom line, I know that I was quite happy celebrating Transgiving, and approximating my internal vision of my ideal Leslie.

Payless Comes Through

I was chatting with a friend the other night, and the topic came around to validation. I conceded that this is the source of much of my frustration, a lack of opportunities to be validated as a proper Leslie. And then I remembered a recent trip out in which I was treated as one of the girls.

When I purchased the bootines pictured at left, I bought another pair of heels at the same time. These were an open-toed, open vamp black pump with rhinestone studs. They were designer shoes that Payless was pushing at a large discount. Good looking shoes, and affordable. Go for it. Well, designer doesn't equal comfortable. Maybe they just weren't right for my feet, but they were quite painful to walk in. An in-store return was called for.

Several months ago, an older lady had been working the counter when I went in to pick up an order. When she saw what I had ordered, she became quite flustered. Maybe the sexy heels mixed with the straight-laced gentleman before her did not compute. I was amused, she was bemused. As it happened, when I made my recent return, she was there again.

I don't think she remembered me initially. I told her that I needed to return a pair of shoes, and when she opened the box, she started to do a double take, but got her wits together quickly. She looked at me again, and it was clear that she now recalled our last encounter. She commented that they were beautiful shoes, and I agreed, but they didn't fit well.

Do you need another size?
No, no, they are the right size, just painful to wear.
Oh, that's too bad. Would you like the return to go on your credit card?
Well, I thought I might look around for an exchange.

She hurried out from behind the counter, and led me into the shelves.

What size do you take, a 12?
An 11 or 12.
Wide?
No, medium.

She pointed out several nice shoes, and told me that the red dots indicated a sale price. She left me to look. As it happened, another woman was there looking for boots in an 11. As she tried on a pair, I commented that those were really cute. She concurred, but said that the heel was too high, that at 5'10", she didn't need to be any taller. I hear ya, I said, grinning inside.

Soon, the clerk was back again. The other shopper said that she didn't see anything that she wanted. The clerk mentioned that the website has a lot more selection. I chimed in that I always have my order shipped to the store to take advantage of the free shipping, and that you can always make returns at the store, too. I've had nothing but positive experiences with the online Payless. She said that she would have a look, and gave me a sincere thank you.

I decided, surprisingly, on a pair of black slingbacks (one day, I will finally find the perfect pair!). The clerk said that they were pretty shoes, but not nearly as special as what I was returning. She completed the exchange and told me to bring those back if they didn't work.

I was treated as one of the girls during my entire visit, almost unflinchingly. Quite possibly, I was treated better than if I were en femme. I left with a big smile on my face, knowing that I got sincere validation as a female while presenting unequivocably male.

Boilerplate Complaint

Sometimes nothing at all has changed, only your perception of the situation.

I have shared before about my late nights, alone at the computer, as being my primary opportunity to dress. I have also complained that this is both inadequate and not as secure as it needs to be. Nothing new.

So, about six weeks ago, we signed up for cable (welcome to the 1990's!). It is hooked up to our downstairs television only. Of late, my wife, the lovely Mrs. L, has moved her falling-asleep-in-the-recliner routine downstairs. Several nights recently, I have come home to find her snoozing across the room from my little sanctuary. Have I mentioned that she is adamant about not seeing me dressed?

I have endured this for several nights, even as the pressures were building in me. Last night, the passive aggressive putz in me made an appearance. I just put my black-tighted legs out for display as I did my usual blog reading. Nothing came of it, but as I sat there reading stories of others' triumphs and failures, I kept coming back to myself. I had a strong urge to cry as the self-pity washed over me.

We are no closer to having Leslie acknowledged in the relationship, but the close proximity of Mrs. L while I embodied my favored side just emphasized to me the distance between us. I sat there desperately wanting to be loved for my true self, and knowing that it's unlikely to ever occur. I feel like I have trod this path a thousand times, but the hurt is fresh each time.

Earlier in the week, I offered myself up for another couples therapy session with J if so desired. The offer was declined, at least for now. I was hoping to address the gender stuff that is obsessing me. There are many things that should be shared with my missus, but I have learned to withhold. I do think, though, that I could share with a referee in the room to force a fair fight. Maybe next time.

My epilations are starting to creep up my leg. The half-calf is nearly a full-calf now, and in my current frame of mind, I suspect that the full monty is nearing. That's a fight I don't want to face, but....

Who's That Girl?

For my illustrious 300th post, I bring you a happy report.

Saturday's meeting was ordinary, in terms of content. Just group discussion, some brainstorming about future meetings, and a short photography session with Sylvia and her low battery camera. Here you see my favorite portrait of the bunch.

My confidence was very high, and it shows. Some of the confidence came from the clothes. My favorite dress, vintage 1988 Frederick's of Hollywood. My new waist cincher, which makes a huge difference in my figure, almost creating the illusion of hips. New booties, not seen here, but in a gray suede very close to the color of the dress. And my hair was behaving wonderfully, looking almost real. Suffice it to say, I felt pretty, which is as good as it gets for me.

Next month is our Transgiving meal, so I will be doubly burdened, choosing an outfit and deciding what food to bring. So many tough decisions. My mind is already thrilling at the possibilities, especially with the likelihood of having bare legs. I am worried about that, of course. I have resolved to work on my marriage, yet I want to do the thing that so grates on my wife's sensibilities and gender stereotypes. I guess I could wear opaque tights as I did Saturday, but I'm not keen on that as a solution. There's still time to figure things out, and I will burn that bridge when I come to it.

In Which Heads Are Shrunk

An eventful week, with the cherry on top being last night's meeting. I cannot possibly share all in one post, so I'll just have to choose a piece. The meeting will wait until Sylvia passes along the pics.

Let's talk therapy. Earlier this week, I got to meet my wife's therapist. I had been told that J wanted to meet me, and she had never treated someone this long without meeting the spouse. As soon as I agreed to it, doubts began to form. Paranoia isn't always misplaced. When I finally brought up these doubts with the missus, she was genuinely surprised. No ambushes were planned.

On the appointed day, we had our session. I was put at ease quickly, when J told my wife that she was being dismissive of me. J was very nice, and did a good job of guiding us back to the big picture when we got stuck on petty gripes.

One of the more important discussions concerned how I might be able to have more quality time with my family. My work schedule limits my options, of course. I did admit that staying up very late is at least partially about withdrawing from my wife. The other half of that, unspoken here, is a need to feel connected to people that understand my gender issues, and accept me despite (or because of) them. Gender did not come up in the session, but if we follow up it will have to be broached. It isn't the entirety of me, or our problems, but it is intertwined in much of it.

I also learned that my wife has no idea what constitutes a compliment. We were discussing the five languages of love. One that I need is praise, to know that I am doing things well. When asked, I could not recall the last time I had received a compliment. The missus jumps in, protesting, that just two days before we had had a long talk, and she made a point of telling me that she does not hate me! Warms the cockles, no? Happily, while my mouth was hanging open, stupified, J made it clear that she had not heard that as a compliment. Time for some remedial work, methinks.

The session was very satisfying, and has made me consider working on my marriage. The missus made it clear that her emotional distancing from me was not a reflection of anger at me. Rather, she is overwhelmed by life, and intimacy had come to seem like work to her. Pull away, and your work load is lightened. She wants that to change, and frankly, I do too. I had assumed that we were destined to remain roommates until an escape presented itself. Maybe not. The next several weeks will be telling, and I will share what I learn.

But Wait, There's More!

I write cold usually, no notes other than mental. Mental notes are quite flimsy and easy to lose. Yesterday, while composing on the fly, I lost an important one.

After the missus came home from her therapist last week, she wanted to ask something of me. She said that her therapist would like me to attend the next session. J has been treating my wife for three years, and she said that she has never gone so long without meeting the partner of a client. Frankly, I would like to meet this woman. I accepted.

The next day, my paranoia set in. Was this a setup? An ambush? A tranny intervention? I think this was when my chronic low-level depression started blooming into something more debilitating.

Most of my concern relates to the time of year. For three years running now, I have clear-cut my leg hair in October. The missus is well aware of this, and expresses her disapproval ahead of time. Could she have enlisted the help of her shrink to gang up on me? Maybe they were discussing the issue, and J offered to intervene. Regardless, it has me worried. I could be overthinking it (ya think?!), but history is my defense.

Her next appointment coincides with my next session, and given my state of mind, I will not be skipping mine. That means it'll be about five weeks before this goes down. By then, I may already have bare legs. That wouldn't change the probable topic, but it would change the tenor of the meeting.

I'll be looking around for other mental notes. I know there were more.

Memory Dump

Initiating diagnostics........

........

.........

Tests complete


Results:

Girl, you are screwed.

On these pages, I used to say with some frequency that if I'm not writing, everything is likely okay. No more. Not writing now means that I am slipping into depression and/or compulsive behavior.

Where to start? It's been a long time. I hate when bloggers apologize for their extended absences, so I'll say that I regret not staying the course. Festering things have been left unsorted. Let's see what we can cover.

It has been a loveless summer. There is feigned warmth from both of us, but there is tension and discomfort beneath. Neither of us is sure whether to lean in for a kiss anymore. It used to be like breathing. To paraphrase a country song, I stopped shaving my legs for this? She has no real duty to reinforce me playing along with the husband role, but it might be in her best interest to. I may not return to it so readily next spring.

The drive to feel completely myself is getting harder to fight. I have begun compulsively shopping for Leslie items online. I made my first order with Hanes, which came in yesterday. A waist cincher! I wore it for about seven hours in the evening. A tad small, I fear, but I can take it. Better posture, and breathing counts as an aerobic workout. I also have an order coming from Payless, two pairs for $32. And, I joined ShoeDazzle over the weekend. No slacker in the shopping department, am I?

My other compulsion is wasting hours playing games on the computer. Mah jongg, Freecell, and something my boy downloaded called Bejeweled Twist. The latter feeds something in me that loves finding patterns, the same thing that had me playing Tetris for years. I feel terribly guilty to be spending my time in such a useless pursuit, but feeling unloved may be leaving me endorphin-deficient. There, I managed to blame it on her.

I acknowledged in therapy yesterday that I am at a dead end on this marriage road I've chosen, but I seem unable to turn around and seek a new direction. I just keep trying to find a path through. I complained that changing course requires effort, pain, and courage. "M" quickly pointed out that leaving things as they are also requires effort, pain, and courage.

She asked me the miracle question next: If you were to wake up tomorrow in your perfect situation, what would it look like? I hesitated for a long while. Maybe I didn't want to say it out loud. I wake to a life where I am living successfully as a woman. I have had GRS and FFS. I have retained my job, which I really like, even if I'm not getting rich. I have friends who I see often, and we enjoy one another's company. I have a social life. I am out from under my crushing debt.

As I write this, hours later, I realize that I failed to say anything about my existing family. Probably pretty important, that omission, and I'd wager that M noticed it. It's a measure of my frustration in my current situation that my family isn't a part of my idealized life.

I told M that I am profoundly unhappy with my life. I am being pulled by horses in two directions, and something will have to give eventually. The upside of having no affection at home is that I have less reason to stay on this failed course. I'm not ready to give up yet, but the reality of this losing hand is becoming more evident to me. And yes, I am the last one to come to this realization.

Half a Calf is Better Than None

Okay, I give up. Being idea-free for six weeks is not going to prevent me from posting. After all, a dearth of new ideas hasn't stopped me before. I have posted at least three versions of every thought that ever circled twice around my brain. Why quit now, when fourths and fifths are just a few synonyms away?

Perhaps a blogbot could be developed. Just enter a few key words and phrases, and posts will be generated that only a forensic blogologist could differentiate from actual human creativity. My key words would include: body hair, gams, missus, I, me, new heels, therapist, bleach, support group, amigas, and underdress. See? It practically tells a story in a list format. Imagine it with verbs!

The summer is plodding along. Not crisis free, mind you. I had a spat with my wife on the issue of working on a critical job deadline for my employer, instead of going on the half-baked trip she had planned. So half-baked, in fact, that when I begged off two days before, the destination changed from Mammoth Cave to St. Louis. Yes, truly a plan etched in pudding. She had hurt feelings, and a three day trip with the kids. I had hurt feelings, tempered by the fact that I did the right thing in protecting my family from the very real possibility of painting a target on my back in the event of layoffs. I chose to be magnanimous, and the water has now passed under the bridge.

The half-calf has been working pretty well for me. Having a quarter of my legs hair-free beats surrendering to nature and the adamant whims of my spouse. Gotta stick it to the man, or in this case, the wife. Just in the last couple days has the longing for complete removal really started to affect me. I am remembering the look, the sensation of bareness. I am ready to burn it all down tomorrow, but I will try to make it to October. Teeth clenched, I move forward.

A Splendid Idea

Your good friends at LeslieCo have been working diligently to bring Peace to the trans community. Apparently the generous offer of shelter from weather is resented by an elite few, who would prefer getting damp to standing alongside those that should be following silently four paces behind them.

So, LeslieCo's think tank has been feverishly working to find a solution. We ran several ideas up the proverbial flagpole. We vetted these notions through our extensive legal department. Our marketing division drew up plans and packaging. Truly, the best minds at LeslieCo have been fine-tooth combing like a camp counselor during tick season.

The LGBT Umbrella is beyond redemption. The concept, while lovely, has been sullied by the fighting. Some deny its existence, others run screaming at its mere mention. A new metaphor is needed, and your corporate servants at LeslieCo have one at hand: The LGBT Hat Rack.

The LGBT Hat Rack is a place to hang your stuff: wraps, boas, fedoras, and yes, umbrellas. The entire community is free to store their accessories together. Or, if they wish to opt out, they take their stuff and go. No formal commitment required, no tangible linking of parties. After hanging one's things on the hat rack, one can go to any part of the community and hang with their favorite cliques.

We fear there may still be a few bugs to be worked out, but we hope to have a beta version available in the very near future. LeslieCo feels that imperfect worlds can be made better through hard-sell tactics and warm, fuzzy marketing for the masses.

Public feedback is expected and welcome. LeslieCo believes in the virtue of free speech, no matter the price of buying it.

Slice of Life

Just finishing up the first work holiday I've had since New Year's. There was MLK Jr.'s birthday in January and President's Day in February, but my employer chooses not to recognize these. So, I had Memorial Day off with my family. A very hot and fine day it was.

We all spent the afternoon doing housecleaning, and the kids pitched in very well. In particular, my boy seems very intent on making the home visitor worthy. Whatever inspiration works is fine with me. I should mention that my wife hates to begin running the air conditioning as summer rolls around. She feels that it is surrendering to the elements. (Have you noticed her stubborn streak?) We hit 90 F today, which is about 34 or 35 C, I guess. Bloody hot for housework, I have to say. I told her that I thought she would relent by Wednesday afternoon. The weather is not due to break till after the weekend.

After the cleaning stopped, the missus wanted to have a meal out on the deck. She made mojitos for us, my first one. Not bad at all. Lots of good convo with the kids, and our fill of tofu hot dogs.

Mrs. Leslie also had the terrific idea to make ice cream after dinner. Rather than the conventional way, she filled gallon Ziploc bags with ice and rock salt for each of us. Then in a smaller Ziploc, we mixed sugar and half & half and vanilla (or in my kids cases, peppermint or maple). We put the sealed smaller bags into the large ones with the ice, and shook the bag for about ten minutes. It worked splendidly, and the ice cream was terrific.

We all took a half hour walk, with the dogs, after all that. And then, my wife insisted that I do aerobics with her (Yes, I mean literal aerobics: deltoids, hamstrings, etc. What did you think I meant?!)

I made a point of praising her efforts over the course of the day, and how I thought she had created some great family memories. I just don't have a brain that conjures these sort of ideas. I'll just stick to my own strengths, and feel lucky that she has a talent for planning things like this.

Less Than Magical Mystery Tour

Hadn't really intended to write tonight, so I'm not sure where or how this will go. Come on in, the water's fine!

I told y'all that I screwed up Mother's Day, but left it hanging. I got some very helpful comments in that regard. I did purchase flowers the next day, but the apology was not forthcoming. Our schedule issues made an intimate conversation impossible. I didn't want to wake her when I came home from work, as that is unfair to make her lose sleep (something I don't want done to me!), and she is busy home schooling my daughter when I get up.

I arranged for us to go out to dinner as a family on Saturday. She was being very difficult about this. She complained that she had managed to lose a couple pounds in the last week, and didn't want to put it back on. She finally agreed to go somewhere and get a salad. Oy! I thought it went really well. Au contraire!

Later that evening, in the wee hours, after she got home from work, she told me that she had written down some stuff. It seems that the dinner was not a success. There were some silences that she found very awkward, ones that she felt I should have filled. She told me that she feels alone most of the time, unconnected emotionally to me. Like a single parent, she said. *sigh* She didn't say these things in anger, and she managed to hold back the tears.

I let her have her say, and I gave her a sincere apology for my shortcomings on Mother's Day, and as a husband in general. I know that I suck. I know that I am not a raconteur. Truly, the interesting things in my head that I might share with her are the things you read here in my blog, or in those of my friends. She does NOT want me to start talking up this stuff in order to mask the silences. Truly, though, those are the anecdotes that are in my head, and they crowd out other things that might be of interest to her. Maybe it just isn't meant to be.

After she made her points, I did tell her that I had something to share. I told her that I am trying to connect with her, trying to build bridges. I start feeling like we are getting somewhere, and she informs me of the shortfalls, and reminds me that she isn't feeling it. I can't build a bridge in one evening. I am way out of practice in playing the loving husband role. I may need some remediation before I can play it well. Burning the bridges as I build them does not help. If she wants this to work (and she says she does), she will have to start accentuating the positive. I suspect that her stated desire to work things out are merely lip service. Time will tell.

Life on the Sidelines

When Sylvia and I were taking one another's pictures at our Saturday meeting, I had a tiny epiphany.

Syl was suggesting that outdoors had nice light, and she wanted some shots of herself out there. Now, I step outside a couple times each meeting, as I store my boy things in the car during the meeting. I don't think much about those trips out to the car. Yet, when it came time to pose, I felt very conscious of my presentation, and how I might be noticed by passing motorists.

I bit the bullet and went out, but as you see, I stayed in the shadows, away from prying eyes. Sylvia, on the other hand, wanted to pose on the hood of her car out near the road. I managed to stay out of sight next to a van, and zoom way in to take the pic. I hope that the result was okay for her, because I feel rather silly today.

I have two real public outings in my history, the most recent being in November of '09. I am suddenly very aware of just how far removed I am from that date, and how much I've lost in the way of confidence. All modesty aside, I am much more polished in my presentation today, and should have the commensurate confidence that would naturally follow. Alas, I do not. Going out with my girlfriends is an impossibility at present, so practice is out of the question. Even as my skills improve, my social capacity is withering. I don't see a solution, but I am now conscious of the problem, and I will try to walk freely in the parking lot at the very least.

I made a muck of Mother's Day in my house. I failed to rise in a timely fashion to help the kids make breakfast for their mother. I failed to make sure they had signed their cards. I failed to make any sort of plan to take my wife out and celebrate her maternal accomplishments. In short, I failed. She let me have it, too, when she came home from her work in the wee hours. Some tears, a raised voice, deep disappointment, feeling unappreciated. I am not good at this sort of thing, especially making plans. I'm not sure how to make it up to her, either. Anything I do now will seem to be in answer to her outburst, and will be perceived as insincere. I have created a no-win situation. Now I have to find my way out of the minefield.

Bringin da Noise, Bringin da Funk

I have brought the funk with me, in the form of a nasty cold. Took the day off work Friday, felt worse on Saturday. Yet, I mowed my yard that day, because it was the second of two predicted sunny days after the ten day deluge, and before the next one. It needed to be done, but I was weak as a kitten by the time I was done. Now I'm dealing with a very runny nose and periodic coughing spasms. Welcome to my world.

Early last week, when I let the dogs out in the wee hours, I started hearing short urgent yips, not the usual baying. As I got to the back door, I could hear things being knocked over in the shed, and much barking. My dogs catch small animals from time to time, but there is little commotion then. My wife and I went running down into the yard just about the time that Ruby exited the shed, holding a possum by the neck and giving it a shake. We got her to put it down, and hustled the dogs indoors. The possum lay very still, but then that's what possums do. Ruby didn't seem to have gotten any injuries. We went back out to check on the possum, but he(?) was gone. I suppose Dame Edna took care of it. I was hoping for some yummy possum stew.

I was awakened Saturday around noon by my wonderful neighbor revving his truck. It's a monster truck that has a clearance of about three feet, an early 70's vintage Ford pickup. I guess that means it has a carburetor that he was adjusting. If his goal was to make the thing louder, he was doing very well. This went on for at least two hours, gunning the engine over and over. Perhaps he was doing research for a new movie franchise about high-powered parked cars to be called The Still and the Spurious. There oughta be a law, I tell ya.

And with that, I am only minutes away from a big dose of Nyquil and a good night's sleep.

Tornadoes and Weddings

The scenes of devastation in Alabama and Mississippi are heart wrenching. We've had a fair number of twisters in Kentucky, too, this month, though not of the fatal variety. I heard on the news today that there have been around 600 tornadoes reported this month in the US. Normally there are about 150 in April.

This barrage of tornadic activity takes me back to my childhood. In 1974, there was a similar event in early April. Deadly storms in Kentucky and Ohio and all through the South. It remains a vivid memory for me. I was one day shy of my tenth birthday. I remember my father and brother and I sitting in a dark house with no power, lightning flashing incessantly, listening to a crackling AM transistor radio. The reports were continuous, the newest scarier than the last. Tornadoes were touching down all around us.

My mother had it worse. She was flying out that evening on a business trip. Her flight was canceled, but she was stuck with many others in our tiny airport terminal. There was no power there either, and everyone spent the night hunkered down against the walls. More than once, they heard the distinctive train-like roar of a twister that night. We didn't have any contact with her that night, cell phones being a bit of science fiction at the time. Dad never let on, but he must've been worried sick.

With daylight, the damage was evident. I remember that a small community called Jett was hit especially hard about 20 west of Lexington. The town was literally wiped from the map. It was never rebuilt, just gone. Tornadoes were a major source of fear for me long after that, joined by great white sharks the next year (thank you, Steven Spielberg). I've always loved a thunderstorm, just sitting at a window and watching the lightning, but talk of tornadoes was another matter. That fear is largely gone now, maybe due to the doppler radar immediacy and accuracy. I feel that a twister isn't going to sneak up on me now.

It looks like the Royal Wedding coverage has started while I've been writing. I confess to not really caring, though I could look at Kate Middleton all day long. I suppose I do want to see her in her bridal outfit, though a bridle outfit would be more exciting. I think those pics will stay a state secret. I am sure that many of my friends will be watching. I just fear that envy will hit me in a big way. Not the bride necessarily, but all the comely women in attendance, dressed to the nines. Guess I should go find a TV. Television, I mean.

Ignore That Little Voice...

...at your own peril.

My social anxiety is largely a non-factor online, especially as my space here became well-defined, fairly popular, and largely respected. I am confident in these waters. Yesterday, I ran smack into old feelings.

My primary email is on Yahoo. I decided a few days ago to try out their new mail beta version. It's a bit more versatile with a sleeker layout. After a few days, though, I was suddenly without the usual indicator of my friends' presence online. I don't chat much, but I do like to see that I have friends engaged in parallel play. And when I want to chat, they are right there. Without that graphic, I felt like one of my senses had been shut off.

Well, if Yahoo Chat is not going to be available to me, I had better get serious about Yahoo Messenger. I set about importing my contacts, a simple task. I checked off a few that I had no current relationship with. This left another twenty or so, some of which I may never chat with, but I am accustomed to seeing them in my sidebar. I hesitated. Each of these people were going to get a request from me, an opportunity for rejection. Maybe I should remove a few more names, folks that are fairly peripheral to my life. Nah, let 'er rip.

Within ten seconds, I had a rejection. This is from someone that I greatly admire, though we haven't corresponded more than a couple times. Okay, maybe she didn't recognize the user id, maybe she gets these requests all the time and rejects them out of hand.

I went off to take a shower. When I returned, I had a note from someone local, asking who I was and why I wanted to chat with her. Specifically, the absence of a profile photo was of great concern to her. Well, I have sat and spoken with her at meetings at least twice this past winter, lengthy personal conversations. My heart sunk. Was this going to me the norm? I went off to work, but this bothered me all evening. I felt stupid. I had overreached socially, crossed lines of demarcation unknowingly. This had disaster written all over it.

As usual, I was overthinking things, doubting myself and my place in the community. When I got home, I wrote an explanation and apology to my acquaintance. I hope she responds and understands.

As for the rest, there are still a few outstanding requests, but it seems that everyone else has simply clicked the Accept box and gone on with their lives. Maybe it's time for me to click the Accept box and get on with life.

Wildly Out of Date

Hmmm, I'm not writing much, am I?

Not much new on the gender front. I broke out the shorts last weekend for the first time. Almost immediately, the missus whispered to me, wondering if I should be revealing my bare legs. I proceeded to show her the six weeks of growth which is quite visible on my legs (especially to me!). She said that she hadn't realized. Within five minutes, I was feeling so self-conscious that I changed into long pants. She then said that it was okay, and I didn't need to do that, but the mental ship had sailed for me.

She was actually apologetic about it at bedtime, that night and the next. She sensed that I had my feelings hurt to some degree, and she was right. If I'm going to have to grow this hair for her, she should at least notice it. It seems that she had been sensing the smoothness of my half-calf(tm) epilating. We talked some about my bald shins, bald since my teen years with no outside help. She accepted that this phenomenon must have been what she mistook for bare legs. Her apology was welcome and helpful.

On a very different front, I have been battling the urge to send a nastygram to my boy's private school. He was having a lot of trouble learning the European countries. We bought an up-to-date atlas, and found a good website that would quiz him. We worked on it for several weeks. So, he took his test last Monday, and we learned some surprising information. It seems that their materials are a bit antiquated, yet being presented as current. Yes, he was expected to know about Yugoslavia and Czechoslovakia and East Germany and the Soviet Union!

Some of you already know my intense interest in geography and history. To say that I was appalled would be understating it. If they had been studying the Cold War, this could have been presented as historical geography, but it has no more relevance to the present day than Prussia or the Austro-Hungarian Empire, especially to a twelve-year-old.

My boy would have had a much easier time memorizing the Europe of 1987, as it had about twenty fewer nations to identify. I am sorely tempted to ask for a month's tuition to be refunded. We have spent an enormous amount of money on this school over the last dozen or so years. My middle child also corroborated the story, as we learned that she had used the same materials when she was in the sixth grade. Grrrrr! The school has lost a lot of credibility with me, needless to say.

After a week of ruminating, the sarcasm has diminished. I feel that I can now write a fairly civil email to the teacher, expressing disappointment instead of outrage. I think that it does need to be said, and I need to insist that they invest some of their dollars in some modern geographic materials. I mean, really!

Swapping Stories and Clothes

Apparently, it's been awhile since I wrote anything. Oops, life happens.

I had my monthly support meeting Saturday evening, very much the highlight of my month, the one day when I am fully Lesliefied. As you can see, I wore a too-tight red sweater, a stretchy black skirt that I bought for myself at Macy's for seven bucks, semi-opaque tights to hide my leg hair, and one of my newer pairs of shoes. The outfit was a little over the top for me, I thought, but the reaction was complimentary from my audience. (Click for a larger experience. Almost actual size!))

The plan for the meeting was to have our first ever TransKentucky clothing swap. I've mentioned a desire to do this several times in the past, and we finally scheduled it. What we did not anticipate was that the Kentucky Wildcats would be playing in the Final Four during our meeting. Naturally, our event was poorly attended. I unloaded some culottes (just not my style, nor flattering), and I picked up a pink sweater and a couple other things. Mostly, I had wanted to give away three pairs of heels that don't fit me. The only girl with feet of that size did not want to be any taller than she is now, so heels were out. Back into the closet. Given the poor attendance, Syl and I decided that we would try it again soon, and hope for more people.

As it turned out, the swap was not the biggest thing going on at our meeting. A young lady (GG) attended, in the hopes of talking to some of us for a thesis she's writing. We wound up just going around the room and telling her our stories. It was really nice to share with someone that has no background on the difficult lives we lead. She asked terrific questions, and got an earful. I spoke with her afterward, and gave her my email. I think there will be some followup, and I love to share my story.

Perhaps the greatest adrenaline rush of the night came when I looked out the door of the center, and saw perhaps thirty police cars in the lot across the street. Visions of Stonewall went through my mind for a moment, but I quickly decided that they were using the lot as a staging area, anticipating some riotous action in the event of a Kentucky victory. No victory, though, and no riots. Just as well, I suppose.

Bending the Rules

Something I did last summer, and have begun again this year, is a bit of a departure from the "agreement."

I am continuing to do some epilating! I started doing the backs of my hands and the area between the second and third knuckles a couple months ago. I found this very satisfying. I have long, thin hands, that look fairly feminine when denuded. I don't see any reason to stop that. In addition, I am epilating the top of my Hobbit feet, my ankles, and about halfway to my knees. I believe that at Starbuck's this is called a half-calf.

Truly, this exercise is minimalist. It is for my gratification only, as it will make no difference in what I might wear in the heat of summer. Maybe it's a little bit of rebellion against the empire, as well.

I'm feeling a bit better after unburdening myself on the blog last night. Thanks for the kind comments about the blog, and the support with my marital issues. Y'all are the best.

Blogiversary and Lethargy

Today marks three years of sharing my anxieties and successes here in Blogistan. The last year is surely the weakest content-wise, and I shan't offer up any links for incredible reading. I will say that if you haven't read anything from the 2008 or 2009 archives, just pick something and see how well I wrote when I was inspired. Night and day, people.

I've been trying to get motivated to write for a few days now. I am having an all-encompassing sadness shrouding everything. I fall into depression briefly each day, but it isn't sticking at this point, thankfully. My leg hair is becoming quite visible to me, and looking at it makes me wanna curl up in the fetal position, so I'm trying not to look at it. Gonna be a long summer...

I have been thinking about something that Renee once wrote on her Transsexual Ferox blog. I don't know if the thought originated with her, but that's where I got it. She wrote that one person cannot be both your shelter and your storm. I have come to realize (and probably the last to see it) that Mrs. Leslie cannot be my primary source of comfort at the same time that she is my antagonist. This isn't working. Truly, the same can be said for her. My gender issues grate on her. Maybe she has stopped coming to me for comfort now, which would explain the emotional distance that I continue to experience. Me, I just want her to hold me at the moment, and make me feel like I can get through this stuff.

She knows that I will go back to the epilation well again all too soon for her, so perhaps the distance will be maintained. If so, I may find myself epilating sooner than she expects.

So, there's my happy blogiversary post. A joyous occasion, no?

Glammed Gams

Really, really nice meeting on Saturday. Much like the January meeting, we had a short bit of business, then a round table discussion. This one centered on issues of identity and becoming comfortable with one's self, and how that is Job One, before you go looking for a relationship.

We had one newbie, and two that were there for the second time, more than a year removed from their first visit. Having fresh voices and hungry ears at the table seem to be the key to a frank, respectful conversation. There were great, sincere questions asked by the new and old guard, and thoughtful answers in response.

The thing about me is that I am not advancing in my transition, as so many others are. I am constantly greeting new faces and saying goodbye to the older ones. I'm pedaling a stationary bike, while others come and go. Okay, that's not entirely accurate. My presentation is becoming easier and more natural. That's hardly advancement on the transition front, but it is progress. I am more at home as Leslie, slipping out of my male mannerisms quickly. I like that. I pack more quality time into my meetings that way. Little time is wasted unmaling myself.

I was very pleased with my presentation this time, and thank heaven Sylvia brought her camera. I meant to bring mine and forgot it in my headlong rush for the door. The makeup is getting easier for me, and more polished at the same time. It helps that my hands no longer shake when applying my makeup. I'm no longer dealing with a huge adrenaline surge while I'm dressing, so the hand is much steadier.

I want to share a closeup of my shoes. I adore these. From Payless, of course, made by Dexter (the shoe company, not the crusading serial killer with a heart of gold). They are a little narrow for me, so they squish my toes, but I am working hard to stretch them out with my feet. Note that there is a bit of a platform on these shoes. I missed that detail when I ordered them. Gawd knows I don't need an extra half inch of height added, but there ya go. I can live with it.

I wanted to post the leg shot, additionally, because they won't look like this again for a long while. I did my final epilation of the season last Thursday, and the hair is already making a comeback. I typically epilate twice a week, so the hair I see on my legs right now wouldn't bug me normally. It would be gone in another day or two. Today, I look and recognize that it will only get longer. I'm hoping to be able to wear a skirt with black opaque tights next month, but it will be slacks or jeans after that. My epilator is going into hibernation for the summer.

The mental impact of this is just beginning to hit me now, as the joy from the meeting wanes. Nothing serious yet, but I'm expecting the worst. For now, I'll just try to savor the memory of Saturday.

I'm Just Sayin'...

I don't like to rush my writing, but it's late, and I'm prepping for Saturday's meeting, but I do want to say some things. We'll see how it goes...

Thanks to all for the comments on the previous post. I asked for an intervention, and most of you took it to heart. Excellent! I truly need to get some tough love. If you all could come around and slap the back of my head in conjunction with your advice next time, I might make some progress. But watch out for hugs, I have very long arms.

I am tempering my depression lately by buying stuff online. Moments ago, I ordered more underwear from Soma. Five panties and a camisole, right at thirty bucks. I just got underwear from them in January. How much is enough? Am I going to keep shoveling shoes and lingerie into the hole in my heart? It does make me feel better to have pretty things, but that's an incredibly superficial thing to say. I'm not proud.

I have purchased three pairs of shoes from Payless so far this year. I have crossed that boundary that Petra wrote about recently. She said that after one reaches ten pairs of heels, one loses all sense of limits. It sounded true when I read it, and I promptly proved it to myself. I now look once or twice a week to see if anything grabs my fancy. Self-control be damned.

True story: When I picked up my recent order at Payless, an older lady was running the place by herself. She started by telling me where the men's shoes were when I entered. I told her that I was there to pick up my order. I told her the name and she went to the back. Normally, the clerk removes the shoes from the shipping box, inspects the shoes for damage, and packs the shoe boxes in a bag for easy carrying. This woman handed me the open, but unprocessed, box. She told me, "You can try those on to see if they fit, er, oh, those are women's shoes. Do want to check to make sure that's what she ordered?" It was hard to tell, but I believe that she had no clue that the shoes were for me. The younger clerks have had no such illusions, but have been very professional, and I never felt embarrassed. This encounter was very strange for me, and probably for her, once she thought about it for a time. I confirmed that the shoes were the correct order, and I clumsily carried the bulky box out under my arm. Ah, well, that won't stop me from ordering again.

I will have more to write after my meeting, and with luck, I'll have a pic or two. I'm chuffed about the outfit that I have assembled to go with my new favorite heels. I have acquired some good concealer that I have been wearing in daily boy life this week under my eyes. I have also done the most radical shaping of my eyebrows ever. It still passes muster in guy world, I think, but it's quite dramatic by my meager standards. I hope it all comes together well on Saturday.

Meet the New List, Same as the Old List

I have long contended that a sane person will eventually recognize futility, and stop banging their head against a wall. By this definition, I believe myself to be insane.

I mentioned to Mrs. Leslie that I had a therapy session scheduled. Soon thereafter, we were lying in bed, and she complained that she never has time to talk to her husband. This is code for "We need to air out some things before your appointment." We opted to skip it at that time, thinking sleep was a better option for us both. When I awoke Tuesday, she had prepared a list for me. Lucky me...

Stop me if you've heard this before, and if you've spent any time around this blog, you've heard this. The complaints never evolve. She had five points.

The most important point was regarding my "wearing women's undergarments in our marital bed at night." It's true, I have stopped caring in the absence of affection and begun to wear panties in bed. It's not like we were going to do anything torrid anyway. Her big beef was a night when I also wore a camisole to bed. She figured it out when she awoke, and was silently enraged for days (she tells me now). What if the kids saw? How does this fit in with you being a man for me? Why do you keep pushing the line?

I also got the old saw about not compromising on the bare legs. I continue to argue that someone who wants to be bare all year round is compromising when limiting it to four or so months. She sees it as unilaterally doing whatever I want to do.

She calls me non-communicative. 'Nuff said.

I'm so tired of this game. My therapist, M, called us cyclic today. Can't argue with that assessment. I don't know how to stop, how to turn off the need to be accepted and desired by this infuriating woman that I've spent thirty years with. I know intellectually that this battle is hopeless, but I continue with the effort. I feel like the Black Knight: "It's merely a flesh wound." Someone needs to schedule an intervention. We can get M to send out invites.

Going Through the Motions

I deeply appreciate all the comments. I feel myself retreating into a dark place today, and I kinda wish that I had a therapy session this week.

We met for dinner for St. V's Day. Plenty of talk, just none about us. I didn't feel that it was the right day to start a fight (and I think it will be a fight). I wound up getting her a book of a humorous nature. I miss the girl that used to laugh easily, both at my "witticisms" and the weirdness of the world. I don't entertain her much anymore, and she seems rather bitter most of the time. Humph, join the club.

No Randy Newman tix for me. And some of you can quit slagging the man! He is an American treasure, a great songwriter and arranger. I would love to see him live. Instead, I received a few dark chocolates, new trousers, and a white shirt with a tiny gray floral pattern. Nice, really, but not in any sense heartfelt.

I felt that both of us were going through the motions. After dinner, we shared a brief peck before I went back to work. That has been the extent of affection for the last six weeks or so, and even that is infrequent. I am certain that she is not up to something extracurricular (not her style, and no time for it anyway). She just isn't feeling the love any more than I am.

I will try to curb my fears in the next few days and start a conversation about our status as a couple. It needs to be aired out, as many of you suggested. I just don't think I will like the answers I get.

The Sky is Falling

I'm not sure that I should be writing this. I have a tendency to overblow (is that a word?) things on occasion, and then feel foolish after. With that in mind, read with a grain of salt.

I have come to the conclusion that sex is being withheld. Now, at the peril of offering too much information, I will share. Since I harvested my big crop of leg hair last fall, we have had relations twice (I think). I am certain of once, and give the benefit of doubt on the other. We were at a swanky company party Saturday night, she was looking great and I told her so, more than once. I pawed at her legs a few times as well. I tastefully decided against humping said legs, though.

In any event, upon arriving home, she went to sleep within minutes, without even an acknowledgment of the electricity at the party. This has been occurring far too frequently, and my spidey-sense is tingling, along with other body parts.

Now why would this be happening? A silent protest about my legs is my only logical guess. She has not voiced anything on the subject, and in fact has her legs against mine most every night. She complains about icy knees and feet, but not hairlessness. I am confident that she has decided to shut me off until I return to proper manhood. This conclusion is upsetting me greatly.

If she is indeed withholding to make a statement of disapproval, I could handle that. I just want to be told, so that I might adjust my thinking and stop wasting time and energy toward pursuing marital relations. Not being told brings out the passive-aggressive jackass in me. This makes me want to continue epilating just to spite her. This is causing me to daydream a bit about living elsewhere, though not seriously (yet). Last night I slept in a camisole, and I'm positive that she noticed. I feel like being in her face with the presentation, to show how it could be if I was unconcerned about her feelings, if I did what I wanted (as she has often insisted is the case).

I hate feeling this way, especially on Valentine's Day. I have bought nothing but a card at this point. I fear that she is gonna do something big, like tickets to see Randy Newman in a couple weeks. I am not feeling the love right now, and I don't want to have to go through the motions.

So, Doctor Love prescribes a big grain of salt. I hope y'all have a delightful Valentine's Day with your beloved, and I hope I am proven to be an alarmist Chicken Little once again.

Good Meeting, Good Outfit

Another month, another meeting. You may recall that I was disappointed not to have gotten a souvenir photo last month, when I looked simply maaahvelous. Sylvia saved the day this month and captured my soul a couple times. I didn't feel quite as lovely yesterday, but I will share anyway.

In particular, I am feeling self-conscious about my legs. They are a bit on the skinny side, but I did truly get my mother's legs. Of course, hers were on a woman of 5'6" and 110 lbs., so they were a tad more proportionate. Cie la vie!

You can't tell it here, but my wig is depriving my brain of oxygen. Damn, it's tight. I have a headache after my meetings nearly every time. This time the headache stayed with me more than 24 hours, and intense as well. Almost gone as I write this, thank heavens. I wear my wig for three hours a month. I cannot imagine dealing with it with greater frequency.

The outfit seen here includes one of my boy shirts, very pale pink, with bright pink camisole beneath and cotton cardigan above. The gold leaf pendant was borrowed from my wife's collection.

I was surprised to learn that a presentation had been arranged. One of our regulars, who teaches at a nearby university, led a discussion about the way media portrays the TG population, both real and fictional. It was a lively talk, with PowerPoint. One new face, a full-timer around my age. Not a huge crowd, but big enough.

One more meeting with hair-free legs awaits me, before the summer crop takes root. I'm already thinking about interesting outfits I can put together without relying on gam power.

A Lovely Nap Interrupted

Groundhog Day has always outranked lame holidays like New Year's for me. What a wonderfully weird tradition. Actually, that's true of both, but I was referring to Groundhog Day.

It holds a special place for me, beyond analyzing the addled behavior of a groggy varmint. Exactly three years ago, I attended my very first support meeting. Talk about a life changer! I'm just glad no one but me was analyzing my addled behavior. I went en homme, though I had my waist cinched tightly and pantyhosed ankles on display. I thought it was important to present some bona fides, just in case anyone doubted my sincerity. I wound up looking like a very confused and odd fellow.

There were between sixteen and twenty folks present that night. Only two of those are still with the group, Cassie and Marjorie. I would call them the Old Guard, but they might take umbrage. Some real success stories were present as well. One is now practicing law under her own shingle in another state. Another is an interpreter for a large company. Also in attendance, a woman 16 years post-op.

Several others were first timers like me. One who came in boy mode like myself would succumb to liver cancer later that year.

I was nervous all evening, but I did sense that this was a situation that could work for me. My second meeting confirmed that, and I have never regretted that rare bravery I displayed, trying something wholly new and scary, fending off every flight instinct in me. That lesson has served me well.

Challenger

Everyone knows where they were when they heard that Kennedy (pick one) had been shot, or when John Lennon died. I have vivid memories of when Reagan took a bullet. And I remember quite well hearing about the space shuttle Challenger.

It's been twenty-five years now.

I've been fascinated with space exploration since I was old enough to comprehend it. I was five when we landed on the moon. I know I wasn't up in the middle of the night to watch it, but I remember watching the next day. I collected the official Apollo patches for each mission. They came in loaves of white bread. My mother sewed them all onto a blue jacket that I treasured. I wish I still had it. Try getting something that cool with your bread now.

Apollo was man's crowning achievement. At least till the iPod. SkyLab and the shuttle were a sad denouement. I still followed closely, but the sheer boredom of it was hard to deny. We were spoiled.

In 1986, I was still a newlywed. We came home from morning classes at the university, and flipped on the TV, probably looking for The Price Is Right. Instead, we saw Dan Rather choking up, showing the same awful footage over and over. The event was less than an hour old. It was bound to happen sometime, given the quantity of launches and the mediocrity of the vehicle. Still, it was shocking, especially for one who held astronauts in such high regard. If I won the lottery, I'm not sure whether starting transition or buying a seat on a rocket would come first on my to-do list. Gawd, I'd love to go to space.

NASA still does cool things, like the Mars rovers, but space travel just ain't as grand as it was when I was a kid. Challenger brought that all back to me yesterday.

Flogging the Metaphor

Jenny asked a question in yesterday's comments that I'd like to address. She asked about the finasteride that I started on a while back, and whether I'm seeing results.

The drug was prescribed in its lower dosage for the purpose of causing hair regrowth on my thinly covered scalp. I've been on it almost three months now, long enough to start seeing signs, you'd think. A couple weeks ago, I asked the missus to have a look for any new fuzz emerging. She didn't find any. *sigh*

I had an ulterior motive in asking for the prescription, of course. Finasteride is also used as an androgen blocker in some hormone replacement therapies. On this front, I'm more pleased.

Hard times for The Senator have eased. He can still filibuster if a major bill comes to the floor of the Senate (which hasn't happened very often), but he takes it easy during everyday business. No need to stand and call attention to his status, he is much humbler than before. When he is needed in Congress, he gives it his full attention, but otherwise just hangs around.

'Nuf said.

What Are These "Feelings" That You Speak of?

Nice to be back in the writing mood again. The realization that I was depressed seems to be opening the flood gates. I've been tamping down my feelings for many months, I think. This explains so much to me about the emptiness I was experiencing.

Feeling again is causing me to look at my recent history with a jaundiced and revisionist eye. All was not as it seemed. For several months, I've been involving myself in other people's problems, sometimes directly via email. I thought of it as maturing into an altruistic maternal figure in our community. While I regret none of that, I can see now that I was avoiding the analysis of my own situation and emotions. I'm sure I have "wisdom" to offer, but knowing myself better would deepen the wisdom pool, no?

At work last night, my emotions came to the forefront. The latest RadioLab episode, "Lost & Found," had me weeping at the end. Then I had a minor recurrence during the newest This American Life podcast. The last time I had cried was New Year's Eve a year ago. This speaks to the denial I have embraced.

I can sense a lighter post coming tomorrow. Not that there's anything wrong with this one.

Life and How to Live It

Okay, here goes.

I have been feeling completely unmotivated this month, easily distracted from tasks. I feel flat. When I went to therapy today, M told me that it sounds like depression. I have been depressed before, lord knows, but this has been different. I have decided that she's right, which is why I pay her the big bucks. This is a quiet depression, more of a malaise. It's not pressing on me from all sides, the way I'm accustomed to. Now that a name has been put to it, I do recognize it as depression.

That is why the blog has gone to seed. I suppose things have been happening, but nothing that adhered to my writing brain. I normally feel compelled to write. M instructed me to do it anyway, so here I am.

We decided that I am grieving. My days of Leslie and roses are numbered, as I am expected to go back to true boy mode after my March meeting. That's less than six weeks. My everyday Leslieness is subtle, nothing overt, yet I am going to miss it greatly. The epilating, the body lotion, the panties and camisoles and hosiery that are an everyday thing at present will be largely relegated to the scrap heap over the summer. I've been telling myself that I am okay with this, but I am not.

I have been suppressing strong feelings, and those can always be counted on to surface. That's where I am now.

Coupled with that, I feel like a cad for the way that I have abandoned certain friends this month. If this sounds like you, it probably is you. I'm sorry. I am expending all my concentration at work, and I can't make myself do more than video games in the wee hours. I'm going to compose an apology to one particular friend as soon as I post this. She deserves better than I have been giving.

I'm going to try to start posting again, not because you all expect it, but because it is good for my mental health. That's reason enough.

Brandy, You're a Fine Girl

I'm a bit plowed right now, as Mrs. Leslie made Brandy Alexanders for us. Good stuff, on the tail of a good day.

Firstly, I went to my support group meeting tonight. This was not the best meeting I've ever attended; that honor goes to my second meeting, the one where I was finally able to live a few glorious hours as myself after forty years of waiting. Tonight's meeting was, though, a close second. It was a sparsely attended affair, eleven of us, all MtF. Two newcomers were there, and getting them up to speed on people's back stories was the impetus for lots of in-depth discussion. I learned so much about the new girls, and about some members that have been around awhile. Plus, I shared some of my difficulties and issues. It was all quite emotional and engaging.

On top of all that, I was dressed to the nines. I told everyone that since I didn't make it out on New Year's Eve, I was treating the next day as my party night. I regret not thinking to get my picture made, as I felt as pretty as I have ever been. The memory will have to suffice for me, and imagination for you. Long patterned velvet skirt, gold shell, and patterned silk peplum jacket, with the brown pumps. I pulled it all together myself from the parts bin that I call my closet, none of it designed to go together. Felt like a fashion maven!

Before I left for my meeting, I was bantering with Mrs. L in the kitchen. I had just made a pithy remark, when she said that she was about to pay me a compliment, but might not now. She said that her therapist earlier in the week had told her that since I was being a good husband and parent the last two weeks, that she needed to reinforce me with honest praise. I don't think she was fully comfortable doing this, but she pushed through anyway, and let me know that she appreciated the more equitable labor division we've had during my vacation period. She was happy that I was stepping up and taking on tasks. I wish she could've said it without the disclaimer beforehand, but it was good to hear.

I feel very satisfied tonight, and serene. If something I said here lacked coherence, I blame it on the brandy, the creme de cacao, and the bossa nova.