Pro(pecia)s and Cons

A new follower sent me an email last week, and included a question that I thought deserved a broader airing.  Lucky you!  She was interested in the sort of results I was getting from taking Propecia (finasteride).

I have been on the drug for a year and a half now, roughly.  I cannot see that it has produced a single new hair on my head.  Maybe it has slowed the progress of my forehead.  Maybe.  My forehead believes in manifest destiny, and won't rest until it reaches the promised land at the crown of my head.  My scalp is plainly visible through my wispy locks.  If that were my only goal in taking the drug, I would drop it.

I see positive side effects in other areas.  My half-calf barely needs maintenance anymore.  Perhaps the credit for that should go to the regular beatings by the epilator, but I think the drug may be reducing the growth there.  Hard to know, but I like having a follicle-free zone south of my neck.

Of course, finasteride is also used as part of the hormone cocktail given to transwomen.  It is an androgen blocker, which I suppose is why it is used for hair growth.  Blocking androgens was really my ulterior motive in getting the prescription to start with.  My hair was too far gone for any realistic hope of revival.  Reducing the testosterone coursing through my veins was a very attractive side effect, and I think that has been accomplished.

I have written several times that my gender dysphoria has been less of a problem over the last year or so.  I keep expecting to be gobsmacked, but it has remained quite mild.  Only recently did I realize that this emotional leveling corresponds to my intake of Propecia.  I think that reducing the toxic T in my system has allowed me a measure of feminine feeling that my body no longer recognizes as the enemy.  Two thumbs up.

(Warning: Euphemistic single-entendres ahead!)  What about the bedroom, you ask?  The Senator does not have the same spontaneity that he had previously, and for that, I am appreciative.  He has not been invited onto the dance floor by a partner since last October, so it would be difficult to say if he can still do the mystery dance all the way to the coda.  He is still called upon to perform his one-man show from time to time, and he still hits his marks and knows his lines.  This is quite enough for me to support his reelection efforts.

Elixir

The pink fog comes on little kitten heels.*

As has become the norm, it snuck up on me again.  I don't even realize that it's there until I, um, notice it.  That my thoughts have been lingering continually on a very narrow area, and how very lonely I am feeling.  It's sneaky that way.  Like cooking a lobster: start with a cold pot of water, and it doesn't even know that the end is near.

The mini-crisis worked itself out by attending my monthly meeting, just the elixir that I have come to count on.  Our guest speaker was my therapist, and she had prepared a presentation this time around.  Previous times, she had moderated Q&A sessions, which were great, but this was more engaging for the group as a whole.  She has taught Sexual Development at the university, and this played out like a good interactive lecture. 

The company of my friends broke the spell of my dysphoria.  They have problems, too, and that pulls me out of my own self-pitying habit.  My issues are different, but are certainly no worse than many others.  It's a nice little reality check.  Zen and the art of motor-psyche maintenance.

5am and off to bed.

* (apologies to Carl Sandburg)

Clever Title Eludes Veteran Blogger

Odds, ends, out-takes, mis-takes:

• I am off and running, at least a little.  I did my first walk/run a week ago.  I then twisted my ankle the next day mowing, so the follow-up was delayed a bit.  Friday night I went again, and I was pleased to find it a little easier, perhaps because I was pacing myself better.  Just last night, I went a third time, this time joined by the missus.  She is in better shape than me, but running is not something she ever ventured into, worried about her knees.  It went well.  I find myself looking forward to my next run, thinking about it often.

• Our June meeting was a Friends and Family Potluck, encouraging our members to bring along the people that support them.  I invited my sister-in-law.  She had to send her regrets a few hours before it, as she was moving, and her help was only available at that time.  I also invited the missus, but she kind of blew it off.  I didn't expect anything else, but wanted to be able to say that she had been asked, in the event that her sister did attend and mentioned it to her.  Maybe we'll actually cross that bridge in the future.

• Both my daughters attended the school prom in May.  My wife was helping my middle child with her makeup that evening.  Near the end, my wife asked for our daughter's mascara.  She said that she had none, and had never worn it.  This sent my wife on a mad scramble for a tube, as she seldom uses it either.  (She also knows that one should not share a tube.)  As my wife was searching beneath her bathroom sink, I went off to my cache of cosmetics.  As I anticipated, I had several.  I came back up to wife, handed one to her, and whispered, "Unopened, never used."  She took it from me and used it, but I think she was a bit uncomfortable that I had the ready solution.

• We have been doing a massive cleanout of our bedroom for a few weeks.  The missus has filled seven huge garbage bags with (mostly) her clothes, to be carted off to the Goodwill.  We had to deal with some of my feminine things in the closet, mostly heels and hosiery and handbags.  She questioned the immense quantity of pantyhose I had on hand, but otherwise she was able to detach emotionally and deal with things without judging.  It was very nice to be matter-of-fact about such things without reprisal.

That's all that comes to mind tonight.  Thank you for persevering.

Storm Clouds

Take cover!  Metaphor coming!

My meeting a couple Saturdays ago pulled me out of my funk very nicely, if temporarily.  I felt pretty normal for the better part of a week, and I got plaudits for my handling of Mother's Day activities.  But now it's sneaking back in around the edges.

During hurricane season, storms form along the west coast of Africa.  They travel slowly across the Atlantic, building strength, taking shape.  Some never become much of anything, losing steam, veering off into the North Atlantic to die.  Others, though, thrive in the warm waters, soaking up water and thermal energy, and then slam into nice towns like Wilmington, North Carolina, or Fort Pierce, Florida.  They wreak havoc.  The whole east coast watches the weather updates obsessively, knowing this could be the one that takes out their town.

This is my hurricane season.  I get periodic inklings, I track their progress, I hope this one will pass.  I see the ocean swells and tidal surges, and wonder if this is the one that makes landfall.  The storm a couple weeks ago came close, but only skirted the coast.  I feel another one coming now, and I am on high alert.

When I started writing this blog, gender thoughts were a constant companion.  I thought of little else, and I had to write to release the pressure.  That pressure has been absent for a couple years, and I really believed that it might be over.  Nope, I can feel it building in me again.  This post is a relative rarity now, one that I felt I needed to get out.

Honestly, I don't want to be in this situation again.  The first time around, it nearly killed me.  The unrelenting urge to change, the dysphoria, the terrible drive to take risks, all that stuff made me miserable, largely because I felt powerless to follow through fully and in a healthy way.

I want a waist.  I want curves. 
I want the pink fog to dissipate.
I want bare skin, from my cheekbones to my toes.   
I want a life that I could celebrate.

I want to write passionately about something
Without it being a complaint.

The Great Pretender

Feeling a bit lost at the moment.  No idea what I want to write, or how to organize the thoughts, but I will try to make some sense, for myself and for you, dear reader.

I'm not in a terrible way, but I do feel it building in me.  There's a melancholy prevailing that has been known to turn into something worse in days of yore.  After a very quiet winter on the depression and dysphoria front, I find myself being visited frequently by both.  Neither are extreme, as I said, but I am unaccustomed to their presence.  I suppose I have gotten spoiled over the last year or so, enough that I thought maybe I had reached a plateau that would be adequate to my needs, and those of my marriage.  Au contraire, mon cheri.

I am in half-calf mode now, epilating halfway to the knee until October rolls around again.   It barely registers as aiding my condition, but no-calf would be far worse, I guess.  My wife and I continue to go through the motions, being parents and roommates pretty successfully, really, but the lack of intimacy is wearing on me, and I don't see it changing.

I have been in denial about a lot of things, things that have been issues for as long as I have been writing on this blog.  I had myself convinced that the worst had passed, but I am no longer certain of that.  The blinders have been slipping off slowly, but the signs have been there all along.  I have been eating junk near constantly at work, in part to stay awake due to the ridiculous sleep habits I have embraced for far too long.  I sense that I am taking years off my life, but I feel powerless to change it.

My brother ran his first marathon last weekend.  I've never run further than a tenth of a mile, but the idea of running holds some appeal for me, at least until I actually try it.  I do wonder when I would have the time to run.  I cannot sacrifice any more sleep, and working less isn't an option either, so it would seem that the excessive computer time should take the hit.  I find it hard to imagine any serious reduction there, but it is really the only place that is flexible.  I dunno, my resolve to change will have to strengthen considerably, but the notion is getting batted around in the back of my head.  I hope it can survive the beating.

Hmmm...more coherent than I expected.

Embracing the Stereotype

I hate to admit this, but I had a blast at last night's meeting.  I know that's the basic concept going in, and I take great joy in seeing my friends.  It's just that...well...

The topic of the meeting was makeup.  We go to great lengths to present high-minded, thoughtful agendas at our meetings.  And this seems so superficial.  Yet, it was fascinating!  Color, and contouring, and liquids vs. powders, and covering the beard, and brushes, and so much more.  Rebecca used to manage a MAC counter in Atlanta, and she knows her stuff.  I learned so much, and she was great with the wisecracks.  A quick wit and an artist.

She did two makeovers while we watched and asked questions.  Cassie got subtler daytime makeup, and Vanessa got a more glamorous look with smoky eyes.  Both looked marvelous, but the main point was to demonstrate technique and choices.

I've always figured that my wife imagines my meetings as a bunch of overly made-up men, talking fashion and brushing one another's wigs and practicing their campy walks.  In fact, I bet many folks would assume that. I don't want people to think that of us.  I want them to know that we are serious, usually sober, thoughtful people, which we are. 

And now I find myself, against all personal tenets, wishing that every meeting could be this feminine discussion and bonding.  My inner killjoy (very strong!) thinks that makeup is a silly, slight subject.  My heart, though, understands that makeup is what allows me to feel like myself at these meetings.  I can't hide my face behind clothing, at least not in this culture, so I am left to feminize it as best I can.  The difference can be startling, as most of you ladies know.  Makeup can make or break your presentation, build or destroy your confidence.  That's a lot to ask of an eyeliner.

Now I must order some primer and bronzer and a full coverage foundation and some kohl pencils and a better set of brushes, and find some time to practice the sweet science of makeup.

The Night the Earth Stood Still

The news is out, and my American audience has surely heard.  Now, in cultural backwaters like the UK (I kid!), you mightn't have heard that my UK, the University of Kentucky, won the national championship in basketball Monday. 

Kentucky is roundly hated in the basketball world.  It's one of those teams that you grow up with and love, or else they are mortal enemies of whatever team you root for.  Would Manchester United be an apt comparison?  Notre Dame football seems similar as well.  The school motto should be, "Don't hate me just because I'm beautiful," words that roll off my own painted lips often.

The contempt of their peers is, in a way, respect.  Who hates bunny rabbits?  Well, we don't really respect them, either.  I was born here, and got two degrees from Kentucky, so last night warms the cockles of my heart, right down to the bone, the cold, cold bone of my Kentucky heart.  (I never studied anatomy.)

When UK won the semifinal game Saturday, the whole campus area erupted in riots.  Cars were flipped, couches were burned in the streets.  Multitudes were arrested.  Imagine if we had lost!  Monday night, the celebration was enormous, but the police were better prepared, and the school warned that there would be academic consequences to any student misbehavior.  The riot was much more subdued, a riot tempered by respect for one's fellow fan.  A nice riot.

Tuesday will be a day of parades and people skipping work.  Not me, mind you.  I am far too mature to be taken in by Wildcat Fever.  Wildcat Rash, maybe.  Mostly, I will sit back and observe others, as I have done all my life, and scratch every now and then.