Number 192

 Happy (Melancholy) Birthday

Memory is a funny thing. Nothing profound about that, I know, but I gotta start somewhere. I can remember minor details of things that happened half a century ago, but I can also walk from one room to another and have no fucking clue as to what I intended to do when I arrived. Again, nothing profound there. This is a common topic of discussion among folks my approximate age. Another frustration is those moments that you'd love to erase from your memory banks, but your brain stubbornly holds onto every single detail. Like when your wife suddenly dies on you over a 24 hour time period.

The particular memory that prompted this post comes from that awful time. It was the moment that Rebecca and I first realized that she needed to get to the hospital posthaste. Initially I was going to transport her myself, but we quickly realized the her level of pain was above my pay grade. A call to 911 ensued. 

(Before I proceed, I want you to know that it's okay to laugh at the end of this story)

"911, what's your emergency?"

"My wife is ill, and she needs an ambulance to take her to the hospital"

"What's your wife's name?" I told them.

"What seems to be the problem?" I did my best to tell them concisely what's going on.

"How old is she?" 

(If you didn't already know, here's the deal. Rebecca robbed the cradle when we got together - or I went cougar hunting - you decide. She was 5 and a half years older than me. Scandalous, I know. In reality, the only time it made a real difference was when we compared the cultural high points of our respective childhoods. In practical terms, it meant that sometimes she was five years older than me, and sometimes she was six years older. Usually, I was able to quickly do the required math to answer the question the 911 operator had just asked, but there was nothing 'usual' about this particular moment.)

"Uhh... 56." I replied.

"55!" Came an annoyed shout from our bedroom.

(end scene)

It was my birthday a couple of weeks ago, and February 14 (the day she passed), is quickly approaching. Since her death, holidays, anniversaries, and other assorted family celebrations always have a tinge of sadness about them because she's not there. Again, nothing particularly unique for any folks managing the grief of losing a loved one, but still... In any event, I was standing in the shower this morning thinking sad thoughts when the significance of my recent birthday revealed itself to me. You see, folks, it was my 56th birthday.

Number 191

 Nora Goes Gown Shopping

For those who don't know, my oldest child, Emma, is getting married to Henry this September. They have been together as a couple for about five years, and I wholeheartedly approve, so it's all good. Emma, ever the planning junkie is way ahead of most, if not all, of the different wedding details that must be considered (which I also approve of wholeheartedly). As I trust her judgement and character, all I've had to do so far is provide her with the necessary funds to pay for things as they come up. There's a long standing family joke that goes something like this: As her parents, we (Rebecca and I), would pay for four years of college and one wedding. As with most comedy, there's an element of truth there. In any event, as I said above, it's all good.

 There is one detail, however, that Emma could not handle on her own: my wedding attire. She could offer suggestions, hints, and/or advice, but ultimately, this is one that I have to take care of myself. And, to be frank, it was scaring the hell out of me. Ultimately, what it came down to, I finally realized, was how completely our culture had mind-fucked me into believing that I didn't have the proper womanly 'figure' for a dress. In terms of being a trans woman, that was a moment of what I term "reverse affirmation." In other words I felt a moment of kinship with cis women everywhere for thinking that my body wasn't good enough. You know: too fat, too skinny, too tall, too short, boobs too big, boobs too small, etc., ad infinitum.

A couple of weeks ago, Cindy and I went to Boston to visit with Emma. We had a wonderful time. Emma, who graduated with a degree in architecture, showed us the skyscraper that she is building. (Ok, technically, she's 'only' a member of the design team, but still...) I marveled to think that the little bundle that used to fall asleep on my chest had turned into this amazingly competent young professional (who knew how to drive in Boston, to boot!) We also visited the Salem Witch Museum, but that's a story for another day.

One morning, we decided to go gown shopping. It was time for me to suck it up and face my demons. Besides, Cindy, who was aware of my trepidation, would be there to help. Heck, she might find her own dress, too. Also, Emma would be there to ensure that anything we chose would not embarrass her or violate the wedding aesthetic she's aiming for.

Off we went to the local Macy's. And what do you know?! I found my dress.

First things first. We had a good time. After getting past a small case of nerves, I settled into the activity at hand. Initially my eye went towards the blue dresses (my favorite color), but Emma quickly (but diplomatically), shot those down - blue was NOT in her wedding color palette. Finally we selected about five that might work, so it was off to the dressing room. Secondly, in terms of size, I had many dresses to chose from, so my fear of being the 'wrong shape' just kind of vanished (yay!). Cindy had a few choices herself, so we decided to share a changing room. That worked well, because, as it turns out, putting gowns on (and taking them off), is quite challenging for one person! Then, the best part of the whole experience occurred. After I had the first dress on, I went out to show it to Emma - and the rest of the women (strangers) who were waiting their turn to try on their choices. In other words, my gender dysphoria was ready to pounce at the first sign of anything transphobic. Instead, perfect strangers ("perfect" being the operative word), gave me spontaneous and encouraging feedback. It was a complete surprise and wonderfully affirming.

The dress I chose was not my first choice, so I had to go back and forth a few more times. It got easier and easier each time. There were a couple of near misses, but when I tried this dress, I knew it was the one. Cindy found her dress, as well, and Emma approved of both, so there was a lot of winning going on.

As a trans woman who began the gender confirmation process after my 50th birthday there is still a great deal of learned, gender-based behavior that I am still trying to deconstruct. It's not second guessing my decisions as they relate to my gender identity: it's more a getting used to my new reality. All within the context of my self identity - which never really changed all that much - and our culture struggling to come up with new understandings of gender. And blah, blah, blah. Listen: Here's the bottom line - I look great in the dress. See you in September.