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Musings of an Impossible Girl: A Triangle in a World of Circles and Squares

2016 July 13
by Jen DiGiacomo

In 2016, I worked on a then-passion project, Possible Girls, a website about possibilities, dedicated to women and trans women, geeks and nerds, and fangirls of all ages and all backgrounds. This is an article I wrote for the intended launch.

I’d like to say I’m a square peg in a round hole, but I’ve come to realize that I’m more of a triangle in the world of circles and squares.

I see the world differently than most; I always have, with my opinions frequently being characterized as coming from “out of left field.” Not that I’m complaining; I just try to see the world from different viewpoints, through different eyes, and synthesize that into my own unique perspective.

Certainly I see the good and the bad, but I try to focus on the good, on the positive. What we have in common, instead of what separates us. I try to see what the future can be, the possibilities in life. Like all people, I have my doubts from time to time, but that doubt, that little voice of what can go wrong, is what tends to prevent us from doing amazing things. And while I might not do amazing things, that won’t stop me from making the attempt.

But first, let me talk a little bit about that troublesome triangle.

You see, I am transgender. In world of gender binaries, I found myself wanting the world of one, whilst firmly planted in the other. It took me a lifetime to see that. I denied who I was; I hid who I was, always fearing someone would find out my deepest, darkest secret. For the longest time I thought there was something wrong me. Profoundly wrong with me. That I was broken. That I was a freak.

But one day, about two years ago, I saw my life in a way that I could not unsee. If you’ve ever seen All That Jazz, I had a moment of clarity. Like the final stage of Dr. Kübler-Ross’s five stages of death and dying, I finally accepted who I am. Like Davis Newman, the stand-up comedian, I stood in my living room, looked at the ceiling and shouted, “I accept!”

The catalyst? Realizing that this is who I’ve been since I was eight years old. In an epiphanic moment, I realized this wasn’t a phase or a bad habit I was going to quit some day. It was, it is, who I am. And that led me on a journey that I could not deny, I could not hide, not any longer.

To be honest, those first few months were the scariest of my life. Sure I accepted who I am, but would others? Would they think I’m broken, a freak? But to my surprise when I came out in what I like to dub my coming out tour, a majority of my friends embraced my decision, showing more support and love than I ever thought possible. And let me tell you, that’s an amazing feeling. After a lifetime of shame over who I was, the hiding, the secrets, the fear, I finally got to be me.

And while I had taken the first step, the road ahead was still not an easy one. And I don’t just mean the stares, the whispers, the outright contempt a trans woman can periodically experience out in the world. But staying true to myself. To maintain the authenticity of who I am. Not to become a caricature of a woman, not to adopt a persona, but to allow what I had kept locked away inside of me for so long to grow naturally, authentically.

It’s been almost two years since I said the words, “I accept,” and I’ve never been happier. It taught me that sometimes the hardest decisions are the ones we need to make. And while I do know what road I’m on, I don’t know exactly where it will lead or which exit I might take. But let me tell you, I’ve passed a lot more exits than I ever thought possible. Sometimes the journey is more important than the destination, as long as you enjoy the ride.

Many of my friends have called me brave. I don’t think that’s the right word. I think I finally stopped being a coward. Finally stopped being afraid.

All in all, being a triangle ain’t so bad.

Diary of a Time Girl: My Doctor Who Obsession Explained

2016 June 25
by Jen DiGiacomo

In 2016, I worked on a then-passion project, Possible Girls, a website about possibilities, dedicated to women and trans women, geeks and nerds, and fangirls of all ages and all backgrounds. This is an article I wrote for the intended launch.

I am obsessed with Doctor Who.

There I said it.

To put it mildly, I’ve seen every single episode of Doctor Who in chronological order. For the initiated, that’s over 825 episodes, spanning more than 50 years, and includes 97 lost episodes, 97 lost episodes that have been faithfully recreated by fans using the original audio, tele-snaps, found footage and, if I’m not mistaken, a bit of string.

So when I say I’m obsessed with Doctor Who, that might be a bit of an understatement.

I was first introduced to the good Doctor back in 1973. I was fortunate enough to grow up in Philadelphia, meaning I was privy to one of the first airings of Doctor Who in the United States. So unlike most of my contemporaries who first encountered “that guy with a scarf”, my first Doctor was the sartorially resplendent Jon Pertwee (or Jan Pertwee as the Philadelphia Inquirer so joyously announced) But more than just the Doctor, I was introduced to the brilliant Roger Delgado as the Master, the delightful Katy Manning as Jo Grant, and the legendary Nicholas Courtney as the Brigadier (“Five rounds rapid!”). But it was Jo Grant who struck me at a young age. At first a clumsy companion berated by the Doctor, she eventually blossomed into the hero of The Daemons, literally saving the Doctor’s life (spoilers!). A heroic woman in the ’70s. How cool was that?

The 10th anniversary special, The Three Doctors, however, was what turned my passing enjoyment into a lifelong obsession. It was in that serial where I learned that TWO other actors had played the eponymous role before my beloved Jan Pertwee, courtesy of something called regeneration. At that moment, a sacred quest was placed in front of me. A bucket list item for my future self. To watch every episode of Doctor Who in chronological order. A quixotic quest to be sure for I was oblivious that the BBC had lost, at that point, over 150 episodes of the series, wiped, erased and junked due to shortsighted bureaucratic policies.

Back in those halcyon days, I assumed Doctor Who was simply a rollicking good British adventure series. But looking back, I realize there were deeper currents at work.

While now I am openly transgender, back then I hid my inner desires, fueled by my shame over my inner self. I was supposed to be a boy, struggling with wanting to be a girl, even at the tender age of eight. But the Doctor, he reveled in his differentness. He was a hero. And better yet, as a Time Lord, he regenerated. New body, new personality, but still the same person. How I yearned to experience my own regeneration, hoping my new body would match the person I was inside.

And as the show has grown, so have I. Its message of inclusion inspires me, it’s embracing of possibilities clearly strikes a chord. And for me, and I understand not everyone agrees, but for me, the Steven Moffat era has been one mind-blowing epiphany after another.

Matt Smith as the Eleventh Doctor was a revelation. Eleventh Hour, especially. The hyperactivity. The mind working faster than his mouth. The utter insanity. My kids stared at the television screen in astonishment. A madman with a box. That was me. Of course the intervening years make it more likely that I am a madwoman with a box, but that phrasing, I fear, be dragons.

And then there was Impossible Girl. Oswin Oswald in the far future, Clara Oswin Oswald in the Victorian past, and finally Clara Oswald in the present, someone who shouldn’t exist, but does. These episodes aired while I was accepting who I was, who I am, when my transition became inevitable. And a life I thought impossible since age eight, was now reality. I was Impossible Girl, a concept, I joyfully embraced.

Not only has the series featured a transgender actor, but it also proved that gender is not what defines us. Take the wonderful villain Missy who proved that Time Lords can regenerate into Time Ladies. Yup, my favorite villain from the 1970s has now become my favorite villain of the 21st century. The Master has become the Mistress, and I finally regenerated into the person I am today. Still me, but different. And to mix fandoms, 20% cooler.

Doctor Who is about possibilities, all possibilities. And that message is one I not only embrace, but embody in mind, body, time and space.

Why Possible Girls

2016 May 28
by Jen DiGiacomo

In 2016, I worked on a then-passion project, Possible Girls, a website about possibilities, dedicated to women and trans women, geeks and nerds, and fangirls of all ages and all backgrounds. This is an article I wrote for the intended launch.

Charles Foster Kane printed his declaration of principles on the front page of the New York Daily Inquirer. I don’t feel the need to be so dramatic, but I would like to share with you why I founded Possible Girls.

Like most things in life, we start with a story. And with secrets.

I grew up with two secrets. The first was that I stuttered. The second was that I was transgender. The stuttering I learned to hide, the gender dysphoria I simply denied. That was a box I never was going to open.

So speaking fluently and accepting who I was, living as who I was, that was impossible. Quite literally as impossible for me as living on the moon.

But fast forward to today and I now have full fluency. So much so that no one can shut me up. Seriously. Don’t even try. And not only have I accepted that I’m transgender, but I’ve been living as a trans woman coming on two years, living that life that was so impossible not so long ago and waking up every morning with a lopsided grin, thankful for all the people in my life who have so openly and warmly accepted me for who I am.

Hence my nickname, Impossible Girl.

I share this because one night not long ago, I awoke not with a lopsided grin but with an inspiring thought. So achingly clear, I had to pace around my apartment in the middle of the night and ponder the possibilities, lest I lose the idea by morning. The next few hours I brainstormed as I do on my crêpe-papered A Beautiful Mind wall, and when the sun arose, I knew I had hit upon something.

Possible Girls.

A site dedicated to what is possible. For women and trans women. For geeks and nerds and fangirls of all ages, all backgrounds. About endless possibilities in life and in the worlds of fiction that bind so many of us together.

But it’s also about being relentlessly positive and finding the joy in life and in our obsessions. Viewing the glass half full and understanding that we are all unique and special and capable of amazing things. For as long as we believe in ourselves, nothing is impossible. Take it from someone who experienced that epiphany in a Dr.-Kübler-Rossian moment of clarity, seeing life in a way that simply could not be unseen.

TL:DR: A site about inspiring and, hopefully, empowering women and transwomen. Showing what is possible, one inspirational story at a time: women and trans women directors, writers, artists, doctors, scientists, teachers, and mentors. Together making a difference in the world, one girl at time. Because in the end, we are all possible girls.

A quixotic quest perhaps, but one most definitely worth pursuing.

Quixotic was, perhaps, more accurate than I had intended, as this project got back-burnered due to lack of time, money and, well, life.

Swimmin’ with Turtles

2016 March 21
by Jen DiGiacomo

In 2015, I launched a blog for As is my norm, I wrote the early mini-posts as examples of what their content approach and voice should be: light, fun and worthy of being shared from a barstool whilst sipping a margarita.

The Caribbean is filled with a wonderful collection of unforgettable critters. Drunk monkeys in St. Kitts, potcake puppies in Turks & Caicos and swimming pigs in the Bahamas. Well, Barbados is no different, ‘cause they’ve got turtles. Sea turtles.

Barbados is home to a protected and growing population of beautiful hawksbill and leatherback turtles. And these turtles are surprisingly sociable, despite being real homebodies, too. They’re accustomed to their routines and love the humans who come to swim with them around the coral. In fact, local fishermen even feed and care for them and have been know to scrape barnacles off their backs! (Hey, we’d stick around for free spa treatments, too.)

Now if these turtle adventures give you goose bumps, the good news is that Barbados has built a thriving cottage industry around these endangered creatures. There are literally dozens of tours to choose from with unforgettable catamaran trips, including a delicious local lunch, rum punch (the real seller) and, of course, snorkeling with the friendly turtles. But unlike the pigs in the Bahamas, these cute creatures won’t try to jump into your boat. Nope, they’ll just steal your heart.

Flying Fish Awaits, If You Can Find It!

2016 March 17
by Jen DiGiacomo

In 2015, I launched a blog for As is my norm, I wrote the early mini-posts as examples of what their content approach and voice should be: light, fun and worthy of being shared from a barstool whilst sipping a margarita.

Even on good days it’s hard to get reliable directions in the Caribbean. Take a left just past which palm tree, exactly?  But therein lies the beauty. You’re in the Caribbean, literally an island paradise. Who needs directions? Barbados, the easternmost island in the Caribbean, is no different.

Ju Ju’s Beach Bar might just be worth the effort. Located near Holetown on the island’s west coast, this little idyllic bar and restaurant is right on the beach with a front-row seat for simply breathtaking sunsets.

The view isn’t the only thing worth making the trip for! Ju Ju’s boasts some of the best Barbadian fresh-cut fries (chips in the local parlance) and grilled fish — just consult their daily blackboard menu. But let’s face it, it’s hard to go wrong with grilled flying fish. Seriously, flying fish. So kick back on a lounger and take in the beach with a glass of their not-too-sweet rum punch. And before you do, consider bringing a snorkel and mask, and enjoying the nearby reef and swimming with turtles.

All in all, it’s hard to go wrong with Ju Ju’s Beach Bar, other than actually finding it. For those willing to take the trip, it’s tucked between the better-known Fairmont Pavilion and Lone Star Inn, behind a lime-green house with a “Dive Barbados” sign.

Yeah, we know those are some seriously questionable directions, but Juju’s is definitely worth the journey.

Bucket List: The Many Shipwrecks of Martinique

2016 February 16
by Jen DiGiacomo

In 2015, I launched a blog for As is my norm, I wrote the early mini-posts as examples of what their content approach and voice should be: light, fun and worthy of being shared from a barstool whilst sipping a margarita.

“The island of never-ending summer.” Not a bad tagline for an island. Especially one that holds as many treasures as Martinique.

First sighted by Christopher Columbus in 1493, Martinique is 80°F all the time. The ocean also has visibility of up to 100 feet, and we can’t even imagine what we might see in the depths, especially in St. Pierre Bay, which offers some pretty stunning dives. Even more exciting, there are 12 shipwrecks (yes, 12) to explore beneath the waves. Divers who get as far as the Gabrielle, a three-masted ship, still surface with pieces of fine china! Souvenirs for the fam, of course.

Not a scuba diver? No problem! Even snorkelers can enjoy the shipwrecks — some lie as shallow as 30 feet, like the Raisinier. You’ll still see a crazy shipwreck and tons of colorful fish.

Shipwrecks aren’t the only attractions to make Martinique bucket-list worthy. Diamond Rock, three kilometers off the coast of Martinique, is legendary for being registered as the HMS Diamond Rock by the British Royal Navy. You read that right. In 1804, a volcanic island was officially commissioned during the Napoleonic wars as a “sloop of war,” a warship with a single gun deck carrying up to eighteen guns.

And let’s not forget what’s really important… Martinique has 14 beautiful beaches to choose from. So if shipwrecks and volcanic islands aren’t your ideal vacay, hit the beach of your choice and enjoy a Ti’ Punch, the national drink of Martinique.

What better treasure could you discover than that?

It’s 5 O’Clock Somewhere: Hussong’s Cantina

2016 February 16
by Jen DiGiacomo

In 2015, I launched a blog for As is my norm, I wrote the early mini-posts as examples of what their content approach and voice should be: light, fun and worthy of being shared from a barstool whilst sipping a margarita.

It sounds like a story out of legend. And who knows, it might even be true.

We begin our tale in Germany, 1888, where Johann Hussong decides to immigrate to the United States. By the following year, a duly Americanized “John” Hussong is lured south of the border, the Mexican border, by the prospect of gold. Two more years pass, and John settles down Ensenada to tend to an injured friend at the only bar in town, Meiggs Bar.

Now this is where our tale becomes a legend. Literally two days after settling in, the owner of the bar attacks his wife with an ax. She skedaddles to California, and after a brief siesta in jail, Meiggs asks Hussong to tend the bar while he searches for his wife. Neither Meiggs nor his wife ever return.

Hussong runs this bar for a year and purchases the building across the street for his own place. John Hussong Bar. No ambiguity there. And that bar is still operating today at the same location.

And you know what? That’s not even the best part of the story.

Fast forward another 50 years to 1941, and another German, Margarita Henkel, the daughter of the German ambassador, visits the cantina. Bartender Don Carlos Orozco offers her a new concoction he’s been working on — equal parts tequila, lime, and a Mexican orange liqueur Controy (known as Naranja north of the border), served over ice in a salt-rimmed glass. The name of that drink? You guessed it. The Margarita.

Little has changed in that quaint cantina since 1941. Or 1891 for that matter. John Hussong Bar has become John Hussong’s Cantina. Maybe a little more neon. And a second location in Las Vegas. But aside from that, it essentially the same place Johann opened over a hundred years ago while in search of gold.

Is the legend true? Honestly, we don’t think it matters. Because we’re all pretty happy with the treasure that got left behind, the margarita.

Caribbean Critters: Potcake Dogs of Turks and Caicos

2016 February 2
by Jen DiGiacomo

In 2015, I launched a blog for As is my norm, I wrote the early mini-posts as examples of what their content approach and voice should be: light, fun and worthy of being shared from a barstool whilst sipping a margarita.

When we first heard about Potcake dogs, our first thought was puppies! Potcake puppies. And that led to an inevitable discussion of where we could find these adorable critters. Local toy store? Amazon exclusive? You get the drift.

But we were wrong. These canines are indigenous to Turks and Caicos, and the Bahamas. They get their amazing name from the Bahamian term for the congealed rice and peas mixture from the bottom of cooking pots that locals fed the island dogs. Hence Potcake dogs.

The history of this unique breed stems from the blend of dogs introduced to the islands. Start with the pups of the Arawak (who brought us the hammock — the Arawak, not the pups), throw in some tall-ship terriers, and a pinch of Loyalist Tory dogs (the dogs, not the Tories) from the American Revolution, and you get a sense of their heritage. With more breeds arriving since then, you’ll understand why some folks toss around the phrase “potcake dynamic.”

Despite the mixed breed, Potcake dogs are recognized as a dog breed in both Turks and Caicos, and the Bahamas, though the Bahamians prefer the term Royal Bahamian Potcake. If you ask us, Potcake dog is good enough for us.

Although their appearances vary, Potcake dogs generally have smooth coats, cocked ears, and long faces. And long faces won’t work on us. Even if they are adorable.

Sadly, overpopulation of these dogs has led to some heartbreaking conditions. Homeless Potcakes and, well, things we won’t talk about because they’ve already tugged on our heartstrings.

But there is good news on that front. In 2005, Turks and Caicos-based rescue organization Potcake Place became a registered charity. And after running out of families to adopt to on the local islands, volunteers started connecting with potential adopters through the Potcake Place website ( and Facebook page. Puppies are vaccinated and sent on airlifts free of charge to adopters.

There is no charge for the pups, but they do ask for and appreciate a donation that will help cover vaccines and allow them to bring more pups into care. Additionally, the airlines charge anywhere between $60 and $200 USD for the pup to travel in the cabin once a volunteer courier has been found to bring your Potcake pup to your local airport.

How cool is that? Looks like someone around here might be getting a Potcake puppy as an office dog. And those long faces have nothing to do with it.

If long puppy faces work on you, make sure to check out Potcake Place on the web and visit their Facebook page with more Potcake puppy cuteness than we can bear.

Now to see if there’s anything to that Potcake cat rumor…

Boat Drinks: Ernest Hemingway’s Favorite Cuban Mojito

2015 December 11
by Jen DiGiacomo

In 2015, I launched a blog for As is my norm, I wrote the early mini-posts as examples of what their content approach and voice should be: light, fun and worthy of being shared from a barstool whilst sipping a margarita.

The Mojito. What drink better represents Havana? It has ties to Ernest Hemingway, Sir Francis Drake, and the Canary Islands. And like most good stories and classic drinks, the true origin of the mojito has been lost to the mists of time.

What we do know is that the Mojito has a rich history that binds it closely to Havana and a restaurant by the name of La Bodeguita del Medio. And it is there that Hemingway was rumored to be a regular, as evidenced by a framed note that reads, ”My mojito in La Bodeguita, My daiquiri in El Floridita. — Ernest Hemingway.”

Believe what you will, but make sure to try their recipe for the classic Cuban Mojito.

  • 2 teaspoons sugar
  • 1/2 lime (freshly squeezed)
  • 2 sprigs of fresh mint
  • 3 oz club soda
  • 1 1/2 oz white rum (we recommend Margaritaville Silver Rum)

Pour the sugar into a tall mojito or collins glass, followed by the juice from a half a lime. Add two sprigs of mint, then 3 ounces of club soda and gently mash the mint into the lime juice, sugar and club soda with a muddler or the back of a long spoon. Add 1 1/2 ounces of white rum, four ice cubes ice, stir and serve.

Of course, the perfect mojito is a matter of personal taste, so feel free to experiment as frequently as you need to create your very own ultimate mojito recipe!

So There’s That, Days 34/35: Gunther

2014 October 27
by Jen DiGiacomo

So There’s That: Adventures in Transgendering chronicled my transition in 2014. One hopes the gentle readers will forgive any awkward or anachronistic language within.

N.B.: When I began transitioning, I was known by my nickname “DiG” — prior to learning my mom had chosen Jennifer as my name prior to my birth. 

My Friday funk stretches into a stagnant Saturday. The lost momentum, the gawping neighbors, the perceived everydayness of my journey takes its toll after all the gender euphoria.

So I decide, screw it, I’ll give myself the whole of Saturday to enjoy a good mope, then track down my mojo on Sunday.

Alas and along the way, I get sideswiped by another series of unfortunate (email) events.

Let me explain… now that I’m in the midst of my month-long coming-out parade, I’m trying very hard to be less of a recluse. Over the past several years, weekends home without the kids meant I could dress how I chose, without judgment. The downside was the abject sacrifice of my social life. Well, now that I can openly dress how I choose AND invite people over whom I’ve come out to, my weekends, ostensibly, don’t need to be so solitary.

Pretty cool, right? My youngest clearly has boarded that train. Why not others?

So in the course of an email conversation with a friend who knows about my transition, I mentioned the possibility of watching Doctor Who together over the weekend, catching up on episodes he missed because of a local cable war that tragically removed this magnificent show from his television lineup. Who knows, I say, maybe I’ll even invite over a few mutual friends who also know of my current situation.

A pretense to stop being such a recluse. An excuse to hang out, right?


His response is to email my other friends under the subject line, “Fair Warning,” complaining that I’ve come up with another “crazy” scheme that will undoubtedly die a quiet death after two or three get togethers. So count him out.

How do I know this? Because he accidentally sent said email to me. A faux pas for the digital age.

I must admit I had to read the email about 10 times before finally putting two and two together. So how do you respond to something like that? I decide to go with a little self-deprecating humor…

I guess I deserve that. But I am trying to be less of a recluse. Turn over a new leaf. Blah, blah, blah. That said, it probably would die a quiet death after a few get togethers, curses!

I imagine there was plenty of pin-dropping silence as he read my response and realized, to his horror, that he had sent this unvarnished “truth” to the wrong sendee.

Ten minutes pass, and I get lengthy response that explains in detail the validity of his claims, apologizes for his horrid mistake, further explains the reasons for his claims, and ends with a humorous semi-apology.

I appreciate the attempt, but the abject lack of an offer to get together in light of said faux pas, takes what little wind I had out of my sails.

So it might not come as a surprise that as Sunday morning rolls around, I’m still in the doldrums. Still in a funk. And still, most definitely, without my mojo.

Enough is enough. I decide it’s time for a pick-me-up, and that pick-me-up comes in the form of my old roommate and college friend, Gunther. Okay, it’s possible his name’s not really Gunther, but it’s getting harder and harder to not identify people in the blog without using proper names. I mean, when I start using names like Mr. No B.S. and the Gay Stutterer, you know I’m scrapping the bottom of the barrel. So since my old buddy and I were both big fans of Hepcats (don’t ask), I’m going with Gunther.

Gunther & DiG… the vaudeville comedy duo.

I drop him an email, he lives on the left coast, and I get a quick response that he’s watching the Eagles game. I laugh, because I am as well, and we promise to connect after the game ends, an inglorious loss to the Arizona Cardinals on a last-minute 75-yard touchdown pass.

On a slight tangent, you might be perplexed at how someone dealing with gender identity issues, in the male to female direction, is still such a sports fan. Well as my patron saint Eddie Izzard explains, many of us are simply male tomboys. And I like that concept a lot. A tomboy trapped in a man’s body. Perhaps not the best description after a couple drinks, but right now, it makes a helluva lot of sense to me.

Anyway, it’s been a while since we’ve seen each other face to face. San Diego Comic Con, a year previous. Work-related trips for both of us, with the added bonus of grabbing lunch away from the crowds and catching up a bit.

Despite the distance, we are still very close friends. Fraternity brothers, in the truest sense. Then college roommates in South Philadelphia and the awesomely named town of Bala Cynwyd.

We hung out though several circles of friends, dated through a few of them as well. But one day he called me up to “talk.” Now this was some time ago… probably the early ’90s, and lots of people were coming out as gay. Kind of trendy to be honest. And it was Gunther’s time to come out to me.

We went for a walk as he worked up his nerve. I kid with him now that it turned into a really long walk as it took him forever to say the words. I put two and two together about midway through and after he came out, I told him I was happy for him and appreciated him taking the time to share his news. I might have even shared my crossdressing secret with him. But that was his day, not mine.

Before you pat me on the shoulder for being so awesome back in the day, there is a possibility, a remote possibility, mind you, that I may have asked, shall we say, about giving and receiving. Subtle I am not.

Well now that the shoe is on the other foot, I promise myself to take less time getting to the point. A little less beating around the bush, if you will.

We hop on the phone and get the pleasantries out of the way, and I ask him if he remembers what I told him when he came out to me. He does, but I can tell he’s not 100% sure if he should go there. Like perhaps I’m going to talk about the restaurant we walked by and not the crossdressing portion of the conversation. I can almost hear the warning across the phone line, “Danger, Will Robinson, Danger.”

Fuck it. Once more unto the breach. I take a deep breath and tell him my news. But since I can’t see him, I can’t tell how he’s reacting. Me being me, I don’t give him an opportunity to get a word in edgewise until I’ve had my say, ending with, “Well, I think I came out to you faster than you came out to me!”

There a pause. A pause across the continent that could forebode ill or simply mean he needs some time to process. Fortunately it’s the latter. And the ease that is evident in his voice tells me it’s going to be okay.

We talk about coming out in general, the fear and then the euphoria. But throughout, he is happy for me, even asking if it really took him that long to come out. I cannot tell a lie. It did. But for my part, I apologize if I wasn’t more supportive, if my questions about intimate details were beyond the pale. But he waves me off, telling me I was more supportive than he had ever hoped for.

I finally admit that the reason I called, aside from coming out, is that I need a friend, a pick-me-up. I explain about the “Fair Warning” email and he tells me something that heals my fragile soul. And for the sake of accuracy, I must admit that while the heartfelt sentiment is Gunther’s, the clumsily paraphrased words are mine and not at all as eloquent as his.

“It’s what I’ve always admired about you. That you’ve always taken that risk. You’ve never been afraid to fail. ‘This is what I want to do, this is what I want to try, damn the torpedoes, full steam ahead.’ And I’d rather have a friend who tried ten things and failed at nine, then a friend who’s afraid to try anything at all.”

I cannot express how much those words mean to me, fragile soul or not. And as you can see, I am blessed with an amazing group of friends.

Who knew all I had to do was come out to them, to reveal who I really am to them, for me to realize just how lucky I truly am.