For As Long As I Can Remember, I've Been In The Habit Of Carrying Around All Manner Of Spare Tools And

I know they selected “Death Riders” as their new group moniker; but “BCC: PAC and White” was right there!

I love that the uniform is white shirts and then there’s PAC.

Silencer

My company had its employees work remotely for much of the pandemic. In June, with the widespread availability of vaccines and the dropping infection rate, we were recalled to the main office.

This was, personally, a terrifying prospect; for I had left the office a Lawrence, and returned as Lauren. Acceptance of my transition was overwhelmingly positive; but such events took place during the remote work era.

Put simply: in-person is a different matter.

Put bluntly: I was deeply frightened of now having to share a bathroom with my cis female coworkers; and how they might react to my presence.

For weeks and weeks post-recall, I tried to time my bathroom breaks in such a way that I never interacted with another employee. I wouldn’t enter the restroom if it was occupied; I would hide in my stall if others should enter the space.

Eventually the inevitable occurred, and I crossed paths with my coworkers. Some were obviously surprised at my (wholly logical) presence; but remained true to their word on embracing the new me.

I’m not sure I will ever quite shake the fear of a bathroom interaction gone bad; but for now, matters are manageable.

This does however bring me to a wholly unexpected observation, and the title of this post.

It’s a multi-stall bathroom. There were times where cis-women were present, and using a stall for one of its many intended purposes: peeing. Not just peeing, but peeing loudly. It was if someone had turned the spigot on a hose pipe!

The difference was only noticeable because I had, at times, found myself also trying to pee; and as stealthily as possible at that. Where theirs was a torrential downpour, mine was but an imperceptible and gentle stream.

It was in one of these strange moments of comparison that it occurred to me that I was capable of such feats - and they were not - because, anatomically-speaking, I am currently equipped with a silencer... And this metaphor has not left me since!

Cold: addendum 2

I can’t believe I’m saying this, but the phlegm from the damned cold I had six weeks ago is still present and still interfering in my singing practice. And now there’s a new issue: when I hit that A4 / B4 danger zone, now my voice cracks! I thought the weird Chewbacca noise was bad...

There’s not much to do but persist; but it feels like a significant portion of my lessons to date have consisted of trying to work around this issue and it’s really, really beginning to wear on me!

Housewife

I wish I was a housewife.

Perhaps I have overly romantic notions about such a thing; but I greatly enjoy cooking and cleaning and other domestic pursuits. It brings me such great joy, ensuring each day that my wife comes back to a house that is just a little nicer than the one she left.

Similarly, I greatly enjoyed the time I was able to spend with my daughter during her infancy; and took delight in being her tour guide to the world. Keeping home and raising my child seems pretty neat!

Instead I threw myself strongly into being a financial provider; and now I see that the same energy can exist in the role of homemaker - merely expressed through many small acts of love, rather than the singular act of acquiring income.

I try (with limited success) not to be overly regretful of my life choices. At least in this instance however, I do not blame myself; as I ended up a software developer and not a homemaker because of the godawful capitalist system we toil under and not because my perceived gender at the time drove the choice.

All the same: I wish I was a housewife.

Dose two: addendum

I feel like I might have spoken too soon on my COVID vaccine side effects dying down; I’m now four days post-hoc and it feels like I still have some issues (muscle aches and swollen glands on the injection side; feverishness if I overexert myself).

It’s physically irritating, mentally debilitating, and it only fuels my anger more towards the sum group of people inflamed this situation for their own selfish reasons.

(I will also add: a couple of years ago, the spouse and I caught a very strange, persistent cold virus; the lymph nodes in my upper torso and neck flared up like nobody’s business and remained that way for almost eight to ten weeks.

It scared the hell out of me, as that kind of persistent swelling is generally associated with far worse ailments; and I was still in my passive ideation phase at the time and was pretty convinced that This Was It. Thankfully it went away on its own; but in retrospect, I’m realizing that this episode might be another unprocessed issue I now have to unpack and deal with.)

(Original from wintersbucky; via feed-the-roses.)

Ponytail

At the age of fifteen I decided to grow my hair out and tie it up. It stayed in a ponytail for twenty-two years (excluding a brief period where I was foolishly convinced to cut it); even when swimming, or at night.

(In retrospect, I really wish I had been kinder to my hair; I’ve been fortunate to retain my hairline, but there’s some thinning at the front and I’m convinced that this isn’t age but rather, mild traction alopecia. Alas; live and learn.)

Leaving my hair down felt... physically uncomfortable. It was a rarity.

Fast forward to today, and I had temporarily tied my hair up to keep it dry in the bath. It didn’t occur to me until after: “Why does my hair feel so weird?”... And it was then that I realize that I still had the tie in.

It’s fascinating to discover that there are actual, physical sensations associated with my gender and how it might be perceived by myself and others!

️ Seventeen years, with many more to come! ❤️

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY TO MY WIFE! SEVENTEEN YEARS MARRIED AND COUNTING!!!

Unexpected HRT side-effect #3

So... your sense of smell becomes more sensitive. That’s not particularly unknown (although you’ll hardly find it on the informed consent form). No, the unexpected part is this:

CATS SMELL SO GOOD.

Oh my god! They are like tiny precious babies. All I want to do is inhale my cats (while they look on in utter and well-justified bewilderment).

Routines

I have a trans friend named ‘G’. She started her transition when she was 58; and it was perhaps three years after that I began my own journey and we started talking. She has been an incredible source of advice on the subject of hormone therapy, for which I am eternally grateful.

(She is also the recipient of a painting I recently completed; one of the few small ways in which I could think to pay her back.)

The two of us having been discussing for some time the strange phenomenon of when we can (or can’t) see our female selves in the mirror. I’m not sure if this is something that affects a large proportion of trans women or is perhaps more limited to just the older crowd; but it’s definitely something we both deal with.

I have a routine in the morning (or did; I’ve recently been struck down by a non-COVID virus and I’m waiting to see how that shakes out). It looks something like this:

Put up hair,

Reinstall helix clicker rings,

Apply makeup,

Let down and style hair.

During stages (1) through (3), I am acutely aware of every facial feature that I cannot currently control and broadcasts masculinity. As soon as I get to stage (4) however and the hair drops, suddenly I can see myself again in fully female form.

It’s interesting because the first set of feelings are not, per se, dysphoric in nature. Rather, it feels like... imposter syndrome? G and I have discussed how our preparatory routines are, in some respects, akin to a magic act; so perhaps seeing the mechanisms by which the tricks are achieved causes ones suspension of disbelief to temporarily halt?

What we do both know is that the more time passes, the more we both become comfortable in our new identities. This is why I wonder whether age plays a factor in the phenomenon - almost as if the adoption of a new gender requires clearing the (significant) backlog of experience as a prior gender...