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.