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.