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.