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.

—

One would have thought I’d have come out to everyone at work by now. I mean, I’ve only been talking about it ad nauseam for three weeks, right? 25 up, 25 down. Well, one would have been wrong.

One more to go. And for some reason, this one’s a toughie.

She’s young, she’s smart and she’s from Philadelphia. Easy peasy, right?

Nope.

Before I came out to the world, the two of us were in the office, and she noticed the hairbands on my wrist.

“What’s up with that?” she asked with an arched eyebrow.

And instead of standing my ground. Instead of using it as an opportunity to explain that I’m transgender (hear me roar!), I blinked. We’re not talking a blink of epic proportions. I mean, it wasn’t exactly Khrushchev and Kennedy. But it would likely hold its own against most non-Cold-War-related blinks.

Let me set the stage. A little aft-shadowing, if you will. The evening prior, I told myself, promised myself that if anyone asked about my hair ties, my colorful, non-manly hair ties, I would tell them, 1) I like them and, 2) I’m transgender.

So when she asked, I fixedly stared at the ground and repeated, “I like them.” And then blinked. Such a promising start, such an ignoble finish.

She gave me a look twinged with disapproval and dismissed me with, “Whatever.”

Fast forward to today. She’s been out of the office for a few weeks. Hit by a car. Whatever. It’s not like she’s dead, right? Suck it up, girl. I got hit by a car a few years back and you don’t hear me whinging on about it, do you?

Yeah, we Philadelphians really are the City of Brotherly Love. Case in point: any injury during a football game in Philadelphia, no matter how bad, we’d holler, “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. DRAG ‘EM OFF THE FIELD!!!” And that was for our players.

Cut back to present. Again.

I’m more confident this time. No chance of blinking. Not this cat. I don’t even know the meaning of the word. Okay, I do know the meaning of the word, but I’m determined this time around, no 21-year-old is gonna take me down. Nope. Not today. Not happening.

Oh, did I forget to mention I got schooled by a 21 year old? Yeah, sucks to be me.

Anyway, with the office empty except for the two of us, I plunge into my much delayed tale, beginning with stuttering and followed by… well, you know the drill. I’m more nervous than usual as I wait for her reaction, perhaps because she’s the one person in the office who doesn’t hide her true feelings behind decorum or political correctness.

But she breaks into a smile and says, “Cool.”

Cool.

I return the smile and admit to my aforementioned nervousness, relating her previous response. With a laugh, she says, “Yeah, that sounds like me,” but admits if not for her experiences at Emerson College (“I saw a lot of crazy shit there!”), she probably would not have responded as well as she did. So if anyone from Emerson College is reading, I think I have your new slogan.

With that out of the way, I gleefully leap into questions about sports bras (she’s goes to the gym A LOT) and scarves (she has a closet full). Not regular scarves, mind you, but those infinity scarves that look so chic in that devil-may-care way, but are in actuality so carefully positioned to look perfectly casual… like so!

My day ends with two more coming outs (no slowing me down!). The first with a former colleague (not AOL), the latter with a girl I almost started dating over the summer. Both are delightful reveals, the former refreshingly pedestrian as one of his best friends is transgender (old news). The latter so heartfelt with the reciprocal reveal of heretofore secret lesbian relationships. I’m just not sure if I should feel honored over being included in the sacred rite of secret-sharing or just be flattered that I might be getting hit on as a girl. Either way, it’s still a win.

Easy peasy, right?

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. 

One of my favorite movies is Akira Kurosawa’s Rashomon, a fascinating Japanese film about a crime that takes place in feudal Japan told from four different perspectives. But unlike American films that would slowly reveal more layers of the onion, filling in more details upon each retelling, this film ends with the realization that, perhaps, there is no such thing as ultimate truth.

At least that’s way I see it.

HA! See what I did there? <sigh>

In any event, I asked the gentleman who wrote me that amazing email (yeah, the gay stutterer) to share his version of our interactions, from learning the news from his boss to our evening of drinking and bonding over a few too many beers.

Herein lies his tale…

Unlike most of the people DiG has written about, I found out secondhand. I didn’t get the big spiel or the dramatic drumroll, and I shouldn’t have. We were colleagues whose duties didn’t overlap that much, and it made sense that I’d find out via my boss, who was much closer to him.

I remember my boss coming back to the office with DiG after they’d just had coffee together. We exchanged a nice “haven’t seen you in awhile” handshake before DiG took off and my boss wasted no time and sending me a “So…” instant message. “DiG says he has two things he needs to tell me”, he writes. I have zero clue where this is going, but I’m intrigued, because if my boss is telling me this quickly then it must be good. He writes that the first thing DiG tells him is he’s a stutterer and that he always has been. My heart sinks a little bit as my boss details DiG’s stories of living with, hiding, sometimes overcoming, and sometimes not overcoming your stutter. These are MY stories. Stories I don’t really share, but stories I know others have. It’s hard to describe stuttering to another person when it’s the type you can hide. It’s hard to point out the way you use the endings of certain words to bounce your way into the beginnings of other words, the way you avoid certain combinations altogether, or the way you pause, pretending to think, when you know what you want to say, you’re just waiting until your mouth allows you to say it. My boss talks about wondering what the hell the second secret is the whole time DiG is telling his stutter stories, but all I can think is fuck the second secret, I’m busy reading you quote things DiG just said to you that I’ve only ever said to myself. 

He drops bomb two. Transgender. I could tell my boss was waiting for the “WHAT!?!?!” reply, but I think I just gave him a “huh… had no idea.” He tells me that DiG is doing his “coming out” tour, that he just told his kids a week or so ago, and that he has long fingernails which had until then gone unnoticed by my boss. I start drifting during all this because my one and only thought now is: I need to send him an email.

Some backstory. I’ve stuttered all my life. Still do. But like most I’ve become so familiar with my stutter that I know a million tricks to hide it. Every once in awhile the tricks fail me, and I have an embarrassing moment that sends me into a momentary spiral, but for the most part everyone who finds out tells me, “I never knew you stuttered.” I’m also gay. Realized when I was 12, immediately accepted, never beat myself up about it, but like my stutter, decided to hide it. I grew up in an environment that wasn’t into having an openly gay kid in their census, to say the least. The hiding it lasted 13 years, which is longer than a lot of people, but also shorter than a lot of people. 

I thought, well shit, not only does it sound like we’ve lived with the same type of stutter (something you rarely get to talk about it with someone who knows exactly what you’re describing), but I also know what it’s like to live most of your life with an LGBT secret. I know what it is to hide, every day. I know what it is to fear being uncovered, every day. I know what it is to imagine the end of various relationships you’ve put a lot of work into, because you think your secret, and your decision to keep it a secret, will be seen as awful or a betrayal by the other person. 

So I emailed him. I didn’t and don’t pretend that I know all of his struggles. Being transgender is a much different ballgame of acceptance than being gay. The answers he gives his loved ones are more complex than the ones I give mine. But I know how hard it was for me at times doing it all on my own. It was my decision to do it one-by-one, without a friend in my back pocket who didn’t care what or who I was, and I know now how much I would’ve liked having that. He was surprised by my story, and took me up on my offer to get a drink and be his open-minded sounding board for a few hours.

 I’ll let him recount our sit-down (see previous post), but I do remember how obvious his high was. When you start coming out, and realize how effortless it really is once you get going, you talk your ass off. Something you would never talk about becomes the thing you can’t stop talking about, because you feed off hearing yourself actually say these things to another person. I told him how proud I was, but to also be prepared for the end of the process; the moment where now you just have to live your life as an openly transgender person, and that it will take time to figure out what that even means. I told him there’s no rush and that we all figure it out at own pace. And I told him that if at any point during or after he needed to talk that he’s got at least one person who will listen to him work out his thoughts. My response might come with the occasional stutter, but never with any judgment.

Okay, so maybe not Rashomon, but it’s still pretty awesome. And so is he.

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.

—

With two weeks left at my full-time gig in New York, I continue to pack my schedule with coffees, lunches, dinners and drinks with everyone I still haven’t come out to in town.

By now, it’s a mixture of networking, getting back in touch with old friends and lining up a support structure of people who will hopefully have my back in case this whole transgendery thing blows up in my face. Because let’s face it, next year I’m walking that transgender tightrope without a societal safety net, and it would be kinda groovy to know who I can turn to if the heavy winds start to blow. ‘Cause, you know, I’ll be on a tightrope.

Anyway… my first stop of the day is with another AOL friend. This time it’s lunch at a swanky Time-Warner restaurant, not my usual lunch fare. While I’m most definitely a foodie, I’m usually a bit more… casual. To put my tastes in context, I’m obsessed with Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives, Unique Eats, and Good Eats, watching on near perpetual loop thanks to my TIVO. So yeah, transgender foodie. Not the best combination for someone trying to shake those final ten “guy” pounds at age 48. So yeah, thanks, God.

Back at lunch, we play the catch up game… divorces, kids, new jobs. Only I get to embellish my story with stuttering and transitioning. Try and top that! Drop the mic and walk away. Just walk away.

An oddly awesome byproduct of coming out to women (let’s just call it a feature) is that I get to compliment them on things that I was hesitant to comment upon in the past for fear that I would be perceived as that creepy guy hitting on them… creepily.

So let me just state for the record, she has the greatest medium short hair ever. And let me tell you, it is so cool once women realize that I’m serious about this, that I’m on hormones, that I’m really doing it, because there is an ease evident on their faces that leads to joyful conversations (at least for me) on hair, makeup (or lack thereof), and storing heels at the office. Topics I’ve never been able to talk about. It’s like being allowed past the rope at a hip nightclub for the first time and then being lead to the VIP room. At least, that’s what I imagine it’d be like having never really been hip enough to understand the the appeal of roped nightclubs. Diners, Drive-ins and Dives and all that, remember?

It is a delightful lunch that wraps up in her swanky office at Time Warner Center with promise of a renewed friendship.

Fast forwarding to after work, I walk to my weekly therapy and get to recount, in detail, my recent experiences, specifically my stress-filled weekend. It is with genuine delight that I discover that she agrees with me on things like mint juleps, transgender proofs and gender spectrum boxes.

My favorite part?

My Therapist: That must have been awful having to defend yourself to a close friend. How long did that go on?

Me (nonchalantly): Two hours.

My Therapist (incredulous): Two hours!?!?!?

Me (nonchalantly): Yeah, but he means well.

Of course, I am the one telling the story, so take that exchange and this whole blog for that matter with an enormous pillar of salt.

But in an odd way, my confrontational conversation on Sunday ended up being a good thing. I didn’t back down. I didn’t feel pangs of shame. I stood my ground and defended my current journey. And that, ladies and gentleman, feels pretty good for someone who, two months ago, couldn’t accept himself. Or is that herself? (Pronoun trouble!)

After therapy I grab drinks with the guy who wrote me the incredibly supportive email. You know, the gay stutterer. Okay, I know that’s incredibly inappropriate, but it is kinda funny. Right? Right?

Anyhoo… we meet at a Mexican restaurant/bar and over several beers bond like there’s no tomorrow. Over stuttering. Over hiding stuttering. The tricks of the trade, like turning your head to appear contemplative when in actuality you’re struggling with a troublesome word.

We then turn to nature of coming out to people, the fear, the shame, and then the joy of dealing with groovy people. He warns me, though, that the euphoria will wear off and then I’ll need to deal with life as a transgender individual.

It’s an amazing evening. While our circumstances are not the same, we share enough in common that I feel I met a comrade-in-arms. And a pretty cool one at that.

It’s strange. Here I thought I would lose everyone I knew when I came out, but instead I’m making new friends and strengthening bonds with old ones. And likely sipping Mint Juleps in my new Italian men’s clothes.

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.

—

It’s Monday and I’m still mulling over my Maryland coming-out parties from the weekend.

New York City has been so supportive, so overwhelmingly happy for me the past three weeks — alas, I can’t say that this weekend felt anywhere near as supportive.

I mean, Saturday went well, but the “mint julep” quip fuels my fear that my friend’s vision of my girl mode is a little more Southern Belle than I’d like. It really shouldn’t bother me — how do I know I’m not projecting my fears onto his loyal support? And yet it still irks me on some primal level to think that people might believe that this is about frilly clothes and not about being who I am.

And truth to be told, I’m not into frilly. Lesbian chic is the term I toss about. I don’t even know if that means anything… but for me, and don’t forget I am a lesbian trapped in a man’s body, it’s jeans and boots and leggings and t-shirts and hoodies and turtleneck sweaters. And lots of black. In other words, like half the women walking around New York City. Which either means lesbian chic is the worst descriptor ever, or New York City is 25% lesbian.

Now Sunday… Sunday, Sunday, Sunday, Sunday, for those of you who remember Bosom Buddies. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the adversarial reaction, the push back. I know my therapist will tell me, “Give people time.” That they’ve known me as a guy for a long time and they just can’t make the shift immediately. Give them time.

I guess that’s one of the reasons I’ve been coming out to people in boy mode. It gives me time to explain what is going on without the visual taking all the air out of the room. I get to tell them. If I came out whilst in girl mode, I would be showing, not telling. And the air thing.

No, I think this is the right way to go. But still, I never expected to be told I’m not transgender in the process of coming out. I didn’t realize proofs and notarized membership cards were required.

The good news is that I’m not prone to dwell on things. Or beat a dead horse. Or not let things go. Nope, not this cat.

My non-dwelling-on, not-dead-horse-beating, letting-go thoughts are interrupted by my calendar reminding me that an old AOL coworker turned realtor is coming by to help me assess my house later in the day. Should I sell it? Rent it? What repairs are needed? What’s the market like? What’s the capital of Assyria?

Yeah, nothing like a subtle segue.

So let’s just cut to my old AOL coworker-turned-realtor friend arriving at my house a few hours later. The two of us haven’t seen each other in probably 10 years, and after a bit of small talk, she suggests we do a walk-through of my house. A walk-through that includes my non-closeted bedroom.

No, I explain, I’ve got some news to share before we can explore with impunity. So quickly I leap into stuttering, then… transgendered. Now after my experiences this weekend, I’m not sure how this is going to play out, but she breaks into a big grin and I know it’s going to be okay.

She is genuinely happy for me, and with my hair a little disheveled, she makes my day by telling me that I’m going to make one cute woman. She then frowns and begins to protest, “Not that I’m hitting on you!”

I can’t help but laugh because while her clothes don’t scream lesbian chic, she is married to one. Okay, that sounded better in my head, before writing it down. But you know what I mean.

I give her the grand tour of the house and when we get to my bedroom and closet therein, she smiles and says, I guess you have a thing for shoes! It’s a wonderful comment that would have given me defensive fits two months earlier, but now it is so welcome and soooooo true.

The tour complete, she makes her goodbyes, but not before promising a dinner get-together one night soon. A girls night out.

Who knows, maybe Maryland won’t be so unsupportive after all. And all I had to do was give it time.

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.

—

Another day, another coming out party.

But as this particular party could be construed by some as contentious, let me skip the usual personal details and simply say, another longtime friend from the area.

We now join our regularly scheduled post already in progress…

I nonchalantly ask if he’d care to head out to the backyard as I have some news to share. Okay, maybe not exactly nonchalantly, but it’s about as nonchalant as I can get under the circumstances.

We settle into the chairs on my back patio, or more accurately, he sits and I pace across the concrete slab that doubles as my back patio.

I can see the anticipation in his eyes. He’s got a secret girlfriend. He’s getting married. He’s won the lottery.

So I start with the easy part — I’m moving to New York City!

Awkward pause.

And… “Well that sucks. I’m never gonna get to see you anymore.”

Tap, tap, tap go my fingers against my folded arms. This is not off to an auspicious start.

I then slide into stuttering. Not actual stuttering, but the story of my stuttering.

Second awkward pause as he waits for the other shoe to drop.

Tap, tap, tap.

Deep sigh… and transgender.

Silence. Deafening silence. I’m not sure awkward pauses are allowed to last this long.

“Are you sure you’re transgender?”

Excuse me.

“Uh… yeah. Been thinking about it since I was eight years old. So… yes.”

“Are you sure it’s not a fetish?”

I know him well enough to understand that he means this in a clinical sense, not as a pejorative. But still…

I clear my throat, “Well, arousal has been part of this over the years, but not anymore. To be honest, I’m trying very hard not to put myself in a box. I’m trying to enjoy this journey of discovery and see where it leads.”

“Well, do you feel like a woman trapped in a man’s body?”

“Uh, not exactly…”

“Then you’re not transgender.”

Tap, tap, tap. This is not going as I expected.

We continue this game of box for literally the next two hours, moving from fetish to crossdresser to transvestite. He taught a class in gender studies in the 1980s, while I’ve been dealing with gender issues firsthand since the 1970s.

Let me edit the conversation down to some of his more memorable quotes, oddly evoking a majority of the stages of death and dying…

•  Denial: “Just because you like to shave your legs or grow your nails long doesn’t mean you’re transgender.”
•  Bargaining: “Why don’t you just wear stylish Italian men’s clothes?”
•  Depression: “I’m not going to be happy for you until you figure out your gender dysphoria. Until then, it’s your divorce all over again.”

He skips over Anger and finally moves on to what I can only call his version of Acceptance: “I don’t care what you wear. You’re still my friend.”

But it’s that laser focus on clothes and the unshakeable belief that I’m delusional that finally causes me snap. Since he’s not interested in Anger, I take up the mantle…

“Fine. You want me to talk about my body? Let’s talk about my body. Truth be told, I’ve never liked my body. I’ve never thought of myself as good looking. The only time I’ve ever liked it, been able to look at myself in the mirror is when it starts to look female. When I lose enough weight for my waist to narrow. When my chest can form cleavage. And you know what? Growing breasts doesn’t freak me out, okay? I actually like it. The concept of surgery? Doesn’t scare me. Is that what you want to hear from me?”

From his facial expression, I can tell this is making him uncomfortable.

Good. I think I made my point.

In an odd way, this is all good. I actively defended being transgender for several hours. I’m not sure I could have done that even three weeks ago. And I feel more certain than ever that I am on the right path. I may not know the destination or what box I’m in, but for now, the journey is pretty awesome.

Now about those clothes from Italy…

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.

—

With New York City mostly clued into my transition, it’s time to turn my attention closer to home and begin the coming out process all over again.

But while New York City has been pretty open armed about this, I’m more than a little nervous about the Maryland/Virginia crowd on a few counts.

One, this region has known me for a long time. Well over 20 years. So I’ve had a long history with this circle of friends as a guy. And most definitely as a guy’s guy. A father. A husband. Football fanatic. So this gender revelation might take a little more time than I’d like to be filed, stamped, indexed and accepted.

Two, this circle tends to be a little more… well… judgey judge.

So with renewed apprehension, I invite my first Maryland/Virginia friend over for a night of college football, food and “the latest news.”

He and I have been extraordinarily close friends over the years, but because of… shall we say, a misunderstanding… our friendship is not nearly as close as it once was. We’re still friends, still speak amiably, but that bond of special friendship, that “Special Relationship” Neil Burnside speaks of in The Sandbaggers, is no longer there.

So you can imagine the raw mileage of pacing I achieve in the house before he arrives. I guess it’s a good thing I have hardwood floors ’cause there’d be a damn groove in the carpet by now.

He arrives a little before the start of the Notre Dame-Florida St. game, and I make some of my famous feta salsa as we settle in. I then tell him I have some news to share. But glancing at the TV, I realize I don’t have enough time to complete my story before kickoff.

“But… it’s going to have to wait until halftime.”

He shoots me a good-naturedly, are-you-serious look. I can’t help but laugh. “For the record,” I add, hoping to recover just a bit, “not gay, not dying of cancer. You can knock those two off the list.”

Cue awkward pause. <sigh> Yeah, definitely not my best moment.

The first half of the game comes to a close over an hour later with Notre Dame up 17-10, and I figure that between halftime and my TIVO, I got a good 45 minutes to get through my story.

Now let me be clear. He has been extraordinarily patient with me. If the shoe were on the other foot, I’d probably have shown my traditional patience… and told him, fuck the game, tell me what’s going on.

I lean into the deep breathing I mastered on my initial coming outs and explain first my move to New York, then the legacy of my stuttering, and the finally acceptance of being — tada! — transgender.

Much to my surprise, he takes it in stride, very much in stride and with a smile, tells me I seem happier than he’s seen me in ages. And he’s happy for me, adding, “If you don’t mind my saying, I’m proud of you.”

I don’t mind at all. It’s actually kinda cool. He smiles again and explains his fairly nonplussed reaction by relating that he grew up, almost literally, in the theater and saw all kinds of lifestyle and wardrobe choices. Lifestyle and wardrobe choices that were wholeheartedly accepted by the theater community.

We spend the next hour talking about my decision, my state of mind, my wardrobe choices and ignore the game that was the pretext for the evening, at least until Notre Dame gets majorly hosed by the refs at the end of the game.

But it is at this point that, in his effort to state emphatically that he doesn’t care how I dress, he says something that sets my hackles on end, or whatever it is that hackles do.

“I don’t care if you’re in the kitchen making mint juleps, you’re still my friend.”

And this is what goes through my mind…

Mint juleps? Seriously? As in the Kentucky Derby? Is that what he thinks this is about? That I waltz around the house in a Southern ball gown with an enormous slanted hat sipping mint freakin’ juleps?

I mean, I know he means well. I know he means really well, but this, for some reason, really freakin’ bothers me.

And heavens knows I’m not prone to overreacting.

Okay, for those of you not in the know, that is what we like to call sarcasm. To be honest, at times I think I’m living in a game of “What Are You Trying to Say?” fromWhose Line Is It Anyway? And if that is too obscure a reference, since obscure references are how I roll, I suggest you watch the short skit for yourself on YouTube here.

So yeah. It’s probably me.

That said, the evening ends pleasantly enough, if not triumphantly enough for the Fighting Irish, and we part closer friends than when we started tonight. But after he leaves, I park myself in a lawn chair in my backyard and stare at the stars.

Why can’t I shake the mint juleps comment? I mean, this went better than I could have imagined. Way better. He was more supportive than I had ever hoped. I should be enjoying yet another psychological high, but I’m not. I can’t stop dwelling on “mint juleps.”

Maybe it’s the self-loathing inherent in being writer, that part of me who endlessly ignores the good reviews and focuses only on the bad. Because to tell the truth, maybe those Kentucky Derby hats aren’t so bad.

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.

—

I’ll admit it. I have a list. A list of people I want to come out to personally before going “public” with this whole thing.

And when I say public, I mean allowing Google to spider this blog and referencing said spider-blog on Facebook for everyone to see.

Cat out of the bag. Toothpaste out of the tube. Beans spilt from wherever beans get spilt.

I feel like my friends, my family, my business friends have earned the right to get the details of my journey from my own lips. I mean, this is a pretty big change. And if I desire that my friends stand by me as I navigate these changes, walk down the street with me as people gawp, go to dinner with me while the rest of the restaurant stares, they deserve to know my deal.

The hardest part, though, is that I don’t completely know the deal myself. But my hope is that through these coming-out conversations, through this blog, we’ll all get a little closer to what is going on in my head and why I can’t seem to ignore this anymore.

So yesterday between Mr. No B.S. and the subsequent gobsmacking email, I ventured over to Brooklyn to share “my deal” with someone I’ve worked with for years. He runs a dev shop, has argued with me over project payments, due dates and scope creep, and mentored my kids. So yeah, I am proud to call him my friend.

We meet at Brooklyn Roasting Company, because one can never have enough coffee. We shake hands, make some small talk before I get into my spiel.

The stuttering portion of the program is more effective than it was with Mr. No B.S. and leads very nicely into my transgender reveal. His response though, is wholly unexpected.

He sighs deeply and tells me that he’s had a really shitty day. Nix that, a really shitty week. And this? This just made his day. And his week.

As he later writes me, “I walked away from our chat feeling inspired… it’s just so refreshing to hear someone be honest with where their head is. I’m so happy for you and can’t wait to celebrate where you are in your life.”

So, yeah, I think it went pretty well.

With that as the backdrop to my thinking, I realize I’m going to see one of my best friends from a long time ago and a galaxy far, far away at a party tonight. We worked together on an online reality series. He directed a short film or three that I wrote. And we’ve won a handful of awards together for various projects and such.

But life moves on and he relocated to central Pennsylvania, directed a few independent horror films, while I juggled my weekly DC-NYC-single-parent routine with some pretty cool consulting gigs in New York City.

So good friends, but several years and several zip codes removed.

We’re both supposed to be attending a trailer parter for a movie we’ve both been helping out on. It’s at Broom Factory up in Baltimore. I bring my two kids and schmooze my way through the Maryland filmmaker scene.

Well, okay, everyone else schmoozes and I hold court with the vegetable tray. I’m not really a party person — and while the people I know there are super nice and all, I realize I’ve come here on a mission. Corner my old friend and tell him what’s been going on with me.

The only problem is that he’s late. And when he finally does arrive, everyone at the party wants to talk with him. We get a few minutes of warm chitchat in, but this is a party for mingling, not personal revelations.

I sigh and weigh the situation. Wrong place, wrong time? Or am I making up an excuse to not tell him? We finally sneak out back for a cigarette.

Right place. Right time.

And… a lighting guy joins us belatedly, dazzling us with his epic tales of lighting TV shows and movies in and around New Orleans.

Moment lost.

I sigh and realize this is not going to happen tonight. Each reveal in its own time. Each time in its own place. And for me, his place remains firmly on my list. The time, well, only the future knows. And the Shadow. But he’s busy schmoozing with the lighting guy from New Orleans.

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.

—

Thursday starts with another morning coffee meeting, this time with a colleague I’ve worked with on and off for years. He’s a good guy, a straight talker, and shares my low-bullshit threshold. In other words he’s from Philly just like me.

Let’s dub him Mr. No B.S.

I start with my standard spiel: I’m moving to New York. I’ve harbored two secrets for most of my life…

But as I set the stage for my reveal with a story about how I dealt with stuttering, I can tell he’s biding his time until I get to the juicy secret. Stuttering just isn’t cutting it today.

So I pick up the pace and cut to… transgender.

“Huh. Y’know, you probably should have led with that. You can’t tease two secrets and then start with stuttering.”

Okay, maybe he’s got a point. And in a way, it’s refreshing that the mild rebuke is over my presentation and not the substance.

He admits to not completely understanding, but he’s cool with me moving my life closer to being who I really am. I mention that I’ve come out to just about everyone I know in New York (except for one), so as long as he doesn’t share with that final notch on my New York belt, I’m cool if he happens to mention it to other people.

He then notes that his wife is a real estate agent in New York, and shares her email with me to help in my apartment hunt. With my coffee done, we head over to his offices on Broadway so I can scope out his new digs. He introduces me around to everyone in the office, but I need to get back to work and I’m out the door moments later.

Unbeknownst to me, he outs me to the entire office within minutes of my departure.

Okay, that’s probably an exaggeration. It’s more like 20 minutes, but when I learn of this later, I envision, with much amusement, the scene unfolding as follows:

“That guy who just left? Transgender.”

Pause.

“Oh, and he used to stutter.”

I return to my office and in a few hours I receive one of the nicest emails I’ve ever received.

[Mr. No B.S.] gave me the update so I feel inclined to offer my ear should you ever wanna talk. As a guy who’s spent his whole life stuttering (years of speech therapy as a kid until I finally figured out, as I’m sure you did, all the ways and tricks to hide it on a daily basis without ever actually getting rid of it), and as a guy who’s also part of the LGBT world, it’s always good talking to someone to whom you’d have to explain very little because they’ve lived most of the same experiences. Anyway, congrats on making such brave moves. Here’s to bigger and better days.

I am gobsmacked. I mean, I kinda knew this guy from before, but this is such a welcome note of support and so completely out of the blue.

We email back and forth in the evening, closing our surprising correspondence with…

Once you actually put people to the test you’ll be surprised by how many of them pass it and make you realize that you’re your own worst criticizer.

Truer words have undoubtedly been uttered, but not tonight and not in an email to me. And while he might be right about putting people to the test, I never expected someone to volunteer for that test out of the goodness of their heart.

Too often we dwell on the negative. But let me tell you, in the past two weeks, I’ve only witnessed the positive.

Here’s to bigger and better days, indeed.

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.

—

I return to the office with a renewed enthusiasm. And perhaps it’s because we have more of a skeleton crew, but it’s a better day. A much better day.

Or perhaps my attitude is better. We chat more amiably, and I’m not afraid to be cheery and even broach the subject myself.

One topic I raise is the concept of transitioning and assuming a feminine name (or femme name). One coworker relates a story of an associate at a previous job who transitioned from David to Debbie. It was more of a public unveiling after going dark for a few months. No longer David, now Debbie.

Now let me be clear. I’m not trying to be critical of anyone else’s journey. Everyone has their own path to take. So I hope this doesn’t get misconstrued as me opining for others. But for me, and only me, a femme name rings hollow. As I’ve said before, I don’t feel like a woman trapped in a man’s body. Maybe a lesbian trapped in a man’s body, but I’ve truly enjoyed my life. This is simply a part of me that I no longer want to keep hidden.

In other words, I don’t want to go dark and reemerge as someone new with a different name. I am still who I am. Only 20% more awesome (you’re welcome, Bronies). So my plan is not to change my name or go dark. Everyone calls me DiG (soft G). And I hope everyone will continue to do so. Because that is who I am regardless of the shape of my body, the timber of my voice or the size of my girls.

I should confess, however, that my first name is Joel. Pronounced like the Christmas-y Noel. So I already have a gender neutral first name. Perhaps if my first name were more definitely masculine I’d feel differently. But I don’t, so there you go. End of sermon.

For lunch, I meet one of my old interns, and it’s a nice, amiable conversation about work and life. Again, not planning on revealing my story, but I figure, what the hell. He’s a little surprised and a little unsure of how to react, but my comfort with the story, the humor I have in the situation seems to carry him through.

After work, I meet another colleague for drinks, a designer, and the reveal goes much the same as the other have in NYC. Surprise. Support. Laughter.

In fact I give, perhaps, my best rejoinder so far. We are talking about what women drink. I used to have a predilection for Guinness Stout. But I gave that up years ago when my metabolism slowed. More recently, I drink Stella Artois. But I am looking for something with a few less calories. She recommends tequila. I then share a story of my college years that entailed downing multiple “Prairie Fires” (tequila shots with ample helpings of Tabasco) back-to-back-to-back-to-back-to-back.

She then asks if I’ve ever blacked out from drinking tequila.

I pause with a wry smile and… wait for it.

I don’t know. I don’t remember.

Captain Jack Aubrey would be proud.

—

N.B.: I should note that my thoughts on the above post have evolved quite a bit in the ensuing years. I have fully transitioned and taken the name Jennifer, the name my mom chose for me before my birth. <quietly steps down off her high horse>

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.

—

New York City. Tuesday.

I am once again giggly excited as I arrive in town and hop the subway to work. First off, since everyone there knows I’m transgender, there’s no more hiding. I have sugarplum visions of conversations I’ve never been able to have before, happening today. No more shame.

Second off, new boots. New women’s boots. That said, they don’t actually look like women’s boots. No heel, a few straps, a few buckles. But they are women’s boots —  from Bakers Shoes. Much like my black high-tops, this is a step in a new direction. Women’s attire that looks like men’s attire. Only cooler. 20% cooler.

I get to work and everyone is, well, working. No big hellos. No comments about my boots. No nothing. Everyone is focused on a PowerPoint presentation.

Awesome.

I know I set my expectations way too high, but I am crushed. I try not show it, and I guess I’m successful since everyone remains focused on their own thing.

A little chitchat here, a little fantasy football there intersperse the day. It’s no different than it was a few weeks earlier before I came out.  It’s as if I never shared a part of my soul with the team.

The day finally wraps. A good work day, but not such a good transgender-y day.

I want to shout, hey, unburdened person standing right here. With awesome new boots!

I leave the office for my weekly therapy session, but I am down. I am depressed.

At the session, I recount my escapades from the previous week. I guess I’m too much of a storyteller as my therapist wants to know immediately if my oldest came around. Sorry. No can do. You’ll have to wait for my tale to conclude. It’s like reading the last page of a mystery. Your patience will be rewarded. Okay, maybe that’s not how therapy is supposed to work, but the writer in me refuses to cooperate.

By the end of the session, I finally address my depression, my frustration. This was supposed to be an awesome day. Not a normal day.

Did they ignore you? Did they shun you? No? Then give them time. That they treat you like they did before is a good thing. It means they still accept you. But give them time to digest the new you. Give it time, and they’ll come around.

As I walk back to my hotel, I mull these words of advice and slowly, it starts to sink in. Give it time. It’s all good.

By evening’s end, there is a renewed bounce in my step. And I have a hunch it’s not just the boots.

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.

—

Thought I’d change the pace today.

Since I’m usually focused on the daily view of my transgender journey, I haven’t really explained many of the details surrounding my path prior to September 2014.

So let me use this second F.A.Q. installment to help fill in a few of those gaps…

You talk a lot about shame and fear. What’s up with that?

I grew up in a different era. I was born in 1965 and my childhood sat squarely in the ’70s. Gays weren’t openly tolerated. Just look at Paul Lynde, dubbed “America’s most eligible bachelor.” Transgender folk? That was even worse.

When I was in grade school we used to play a game during recess called “Smear the Queer” where all the boys would chase and tackle whoever happened to be holding the football… the queer. That sort of matter-of-fact attitude towards anything different took its toll on someone who secretly liked to wear dresses. My keen adolescent survival instinct kicked in and I quickly learned to hide that part of myself from the world.

Fast forward to my late teens and early twenties when I began to explore the outside world in girl mode. For the most part I could be myself, smile even. But there were too many encounters resulting in being pointed at, laughed at, cursed at, even threatened with bodily harm. Of being made a spectacle of over the loud speaker at a K-Mart whilst trying to buy a skirt. Or chased down Ben Franklin Boulevard when I wandered too far away from the safety of my car rather late one night.

All these experiences fueled the fear that I was, in fact, a freak. I “purged” my entire wardrobe on countless occasions, vowing to never dress again. I started to believe there was something wrong with me.

So, yeah, after 40 years, it’s still a challenge to expunge all of the shame and overcome all the fear. Because a part of me still fears I’m a freak. Still fears my friends won’t be accepting of who I am and path I’ve decided to take.

The good news? Everyone, every single person I’ve told, has been more supportive and accepting than I ever thought possible.

Are you “passable”?

This used to be so important to me. Passing as a woman.

I won’t deny that there was a thrill when I did. When my hair and makeup were just right. When I walked past people and the only looks I got were for a cute girl, not a freak. I used to tell myself that if I could pass full time, then I could do this. That I could somehow transition from being male to female with no muss, no fuss.

So on a good day, yeah, I can pass. I’ve been called “ma’am” whilst standing in line at the grocery store or the pharmacy when my ponytail is a little disheveled, when I’m wearing my black and yellow hoodie with jeans and boots.

And on a not-so good day, I’m a bloke in a dress, as Eddie Izzard is fond of saying.

But I guess the difference now is that this journey is less about “passing” and more about being who I am. I mean it’s flattering when I pass as female. It’s actually pretty awesome. But at the end of the day, I am transgender. And if I can’t accept that, how can I expect others to do so?

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.

—

Sunday morning coming down, and I feel as if there’s a new normal in my life. Or at least, a new normal where I live.

No more hiding at home. No more fear of being who I am in my own house.

Who’d of thunk, right?

I cheerfully pad around the first floor in my bare feet, toenails still painted a dark red. I pass by my oldest who is parked on a couch and he stares fixedly at my toes.

Uh-oh. Uh-oh?

But he breaks into a smile and, “Wow, those look nice.”

I laugh, yeah, well I told you I have girl feet.

It’s a tension-free encounter that I didn’t think possible 24 hours ago. Hell, unthinkable only 24 days ago.

I don’t think full-blown girl mode is appropriate after all the Sturm und Drang of the past few days, but I do have a desire to show off my burgundy clogs. So I do. Again, a positive response. As in, wow, I like those.

It is such a delightful exchange, and I am finally able to respond how I’ve always wanted to, “Yeah, pretty cool, right?”

And the bonus in all this? I’m taller than my oldest for the first time in about three years. In your face!

Who knew being a girl could be so empowering?

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.

—

Morning comes and I am awake at the crack of dawn.

I pace downstairs and make coffee. I pace around with my coffee once it’s brewed. And then I pace some more. Waiting. Waiting to see if my oldest son has come around.

I make sure to wear “guy” socks, and even put on my “guy” boots. Without realizing it, I am returning to my traditional role as Dad.

The kids get up around 10 a.m. to go see My Little Pony: Equestria Girls – Rainbow Rocks with a friend at a nearby movie theater. My youngest is a Brony, remember? But my oldest is still distant. I look down at my wrist and realize I haven’t even put on my hair ties, my symbol of strength and defiance.

I continue my pacing around the first floor, cleaning this and that. I just can’t be in the same room as my oldest as I’m afraid I’ll break down in front of him.

Thirty seconds in the living room, then back to the kitchen. My youngest wanders in and I ask for a hug. Not good, I tell them, not good.

Finally their ride arrives and I whisk them out the door. I close the door and lean against it before finally sinking to the ground. And the tears come. Oh, do the tears come.

That’s it, right? I can’t be myself in front of my son. The one who is always understanding. Just not of this. Or of me.

I finally pull myself back together, though I fear it takes me a good hour to exhaust my pity party. I give my face a good splash of cold water to get rid of the red rims around my eyes. Deep breath, buddy. Deep breath.

By the the time the kids return home, I’m feeling better. Whatever happens happens. Either he is here on this journey with me or he’s not. My youngest is good with me, and even more so with their Pony movie.

We finally settle in for some more Doctor Who. It’s a normal day for the three of us and I decide I can live with that. We wrap up a mini-marathon, and it’s time for my youngest to get to work for the evening.

After dropping my youngest off, I finally decide enough is enough and broach the elephant in the room with my oldest.

So we good?

Silence. Lots of face pulling, but no intelligible response.

This goes on a for an eternity, but I’m out of answers. I’m emotionally empty. I feel like there’s a path to reaching him, I just can’t find it. Thicket too dense. Machete too dull.

I finally ask if he wants to read my blog. This blog.

He nods and I head upstairs to let him read alone — without the specter of me pacing or staring at his face for every possible reaction as he reads each post.

I finally return after 20 minutes and he is staring at the screen with tears in his eyes and on his cheeks.

Oh shit. Oh shit? I don’t even know anymore.

But these turn out to be good tears. He gets up and gives me a long hug. And finally says, “Dad, I love you. I think I get it now. And I’m okay with it.” There is a sincerity in his voice and in his hug that tells me we are, in fact, okay.

The rest of the evening is good, relaxing even. We pick up my youngest a few hours later from work, grab dinner and wrap the evening with one more episode of Doctor Who.

It seems only apropos to end this with a quote from Doctor Who, but not actually Doctor Who. That does makes sense. But if not, just trust me…

When you’re a kid, they tell you it’s all… grow up, get a job, get married, get a house, have a kid, and that’s it. But the truth is, the world is so much stranger than that. It’s so much darker. And so much madder. And so much better. 

Maybe not darker, at least not for me anymore. But it definitely is stranger, madder and so much better.

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.

—

I catch my train back to BWI in the late afternoon and arrange to meet with my oldest for a weekend home from college. It’s been over a month since I dropped him off for his sophomore year at Goucher College, and it’s great to see him again.

I was hoping to get home before sharing my news, but patience has never been my forte, so we drop our bags off in my car at the parking garage, and I tell him I have some things I need to talk to him about.

Now let me preface this by saying that my oldest son is the one person I was sure would be okay with all of this. He is a terrific kid. Very empathic and always there to give someone a hug when they are the least bit down.

You might see where this is going. And you’d think by now I would have learned my lesson on setting expectations. But no, that’s not how I roll.

I start pacing and tell him first about my move to NYC. All good.

Then I tell him about hiding my stuttering for 25 years. Again, all good.

Then I tell him I’m transgender. Aaaaaand… not so good.

I am really caught off guard. This is not at all what I was expecting. And I start to get a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach.

But I put on a brave face and tell him that he needs to react how ever he feels. We all have visceral reactions to things in life. This isn’t a time to pretend and tell me what I want to hear. This impacts him. This impacts our relationship. This impacts his life. Be honest. It’s okay.

Well, he tells me, I have a few trans friends at Goucher and I’m just not comfortable around them.

Good, good. Don’t hold back.

I try to explain that it’s not like Tootsie. That girl mode entails things like yoga pants, long skirts, clogs. Nothing outrageous. He doesn’t need to see me in girl mode. I’m still mostly in boy mode anyway, etc, etc. etc.

By now, we’ve been in the garage for a while, and I realize we should probably be driving home. We continue our conversation in the car, but this is not going at all how I had envisioned.

That said, I genuinely appreciate his honesty. And I’m sure he’ll come around. Right?

Empathy. Hugs. Just give it time.

We make a pit stop at the mall on the way home because the padding on my glasses broke off earlier in the day. We walk by a slew of women’s clothing stores, and I point out blouses and leggings that I might wear — again, nothing too showy. Nothing too age inappropriate.

He seems to start to get it, but there’s still a palpable distance between us.

We finally get home in time to pick up my youngest from work at the movie theater, and after a late dinner and an episode of Doctor Who, I find myself absolutely exhausted and emotionally spent. I tell the boys I’m beat, and head up to my bedroom, explaining they should spend some time catching up. Sibling-to-sibling time. And that gives me go-upstairs-and-try-not-to-lose-it time.

I close the door of my bedroom behind me and tell myself, hold it together. Give him time. And for god’s sake, get some sleep.

I crawl into bed, close my eyes and wait to see what tomorrow will bring.

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.

—

Eleven down.

I think it’s safe to say that this transgender train has sailed (I’ll take “Butchered Analogies” for $500, Alex), and I now fill my days in New York City with coffees, lunches, dinners and drinks to let people know personally what’s going on in my life before news slips out on its own.

No more hiding.

Today starts with a lunch with a former intern from NYU who spent many a day in the office discussing storytelling, narrative structure and the like with me.

Now I get to tell her my story.

We walk to the Melt Shop for lunch (the grilled cheese should do wonders for my figure) and after ordering, I find a quiet spot outside to eat and share my news. A group of rambunctious teens quickly grabs the next table, the one about six inches away from us, and I move us to a bench for a tad more privacy.

Yada, Yada, Blah, blah, blah. Aaaaaaand… transgender.

She makes her feelings on the matter quite apparent. It’s written all over her face. She is thrilled for me.

It’s funny. I’ve come out to 12 people now and I’m at the point where I can almost classify the responses. And her response goes to the top list. Completely accepting. Thrilled for me. So much so that all my nervousness dissipates. I get to be me. I get to stop hiding a part of myself. And let me tell you, that is a wonderful feeling.

We continue our chat as I walk her back to her office, unfortunately, we come up with no new words for my new vocabulary. Guys may be raunchier, but at least they have more creativity when it comes to words for women’s breasts. A lot more creativity.

I head downtown for another meeting, this time with a guy I worked with at AOL, consulted with for a good five years, and the business partner of the first guy I told, last week.

I know he’s going to take it just fine. He’s a terrific guy, and his brother is the leading activist for gay marriage, but I’m still stressed. He’s known me for 15 years. We worked together closely for many of those years. And despite the past week of love and support, this doesn’t seem to get much easier, especially with people I’ve known for a long time.

He gives me a hug when I come in the office, introduces me around as “the best,” and we finally settle in within one of his side offices. He knows I have news, so I start with, “Not gay, not dying of cancer.”

I share my stuttering tale, then the hiding and the shame, aaaaand… transgender.

He gives me a hug, tells me how proud he is of me, how brave I am and proceeds to dominate the conversation, much like he usually does. But it’s good. Nothing has changed between us. He still wants to work with me again, girl mode or boy mode. And he still wants to dominate any conversation he is in.

But for the first time, I realize that people, even open-minded people, don’t necessarily understand what I’m going through. He peppers the conversation with the word “tranny” and asks me if Tootsie was my favorite movie growing up. I’m hesitant to bring up that “tranny” isn’t really a word in favor within the trans community. It feels like a pejorative. Not when he says it, because I know it comes from a place of love. But it’s hard not to wince each time he uses it.

And don’t just take my word for it. To quote Wikipedia (always known to be at least 90% accurate)…

Tranny is a slang term used chiefly to describe people who are transgender, i.e. transsexual, drag, transvestites or cross-dressers. The term is considered a slur by some transgender activists, such as Roz Kaveney. The Gay & Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation (GLAAD) state that the term is “usually considered offensive and/or defamatory” by members of the transgender community. The gay community is believed to have originated the term, and many members of the gay community feel the word is a term of endearment.

As for Tootsie, that’s the first time that movie has been referenced since I started coming out. Sure, I liked the movie, but it didn’t speak to me. It’s about an out-of-work actor who takes on the role of a woman to get work. It has very little to do with gender identity, at least for me. I certainly don’t dress up in glittery gowns and wave around American flags, and perhaps that’s what some people will envision in their minds. That this is about clothing and theater. But that’s not what it’s about for me. It’s about me being who I am.

In a way, that’s what this blog is for. To educate people on what I’m really going through.

Perhaps our next conversation will be a better time to bring this up. I really don’t want to ruin the moment over technicalities, because it is genuinely a delightful meeting and I’m blessed to have friends like him.

His assistant breaks in on our discussion and he is pulled into another meeting, but not before giving me another hug and a kiss on the cheek.

That night, I find myself unexpectedly in New York City for another day, and end up having drinks with a young guy who used to work for me on a web project where we relaunched 167 radio station websites in a little over two months.

I wasn’t planning on outing myself with him. More of a catchup, but we have such a delightful conversation about life that the moment just seems right. I tell him, and maybe these kids in their early twenties just have a different outlook on life, but he is thrilled for me. It doesn’t phase him in the least and he tells me how much he admires me for being honest with myself and being so open about it.

I guess waiting 40 years to come to grips with being transgender doesn’t sound very brave to me, but I’ll take what I can get. And so far, that’s 14 amazing friends.

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. 

Wednesday morning 3 A.M.

Not just a Simon & Garfunkel album anymore. It’s me in my hotel room and I can’t sleep.

I send a note of gratitude to my boss for her wonderful and loving support and continue pacing the hotel room.

Why? Because in the morning I have an appointment at Beth Israel Medical Center about my self-medicated hormone use and subsequent blood test. On the positive side, my nurse practitioner is transgender so hopefully she’ll be understanding about what I’ve been going through.

I finally fall asleep, but awake hours later and the pacing continues.

My wait finally comes to an end, and I arrive at Beth Israel on 14th Street. Everyone there is extremely nice and supportive, and I am directed to fill in my personal information.

I am then confronted, for the first time in my life, with a new choice. Male. Female. Transgender.

I smile and circle Transgender. I smile again and can’t suppress a laugh this time. “I accept!!!”

I wish I could recount more epic tales of bravery, but I panic when it comes to my insurance. Do I want my insurance company to know I’m transgender? Do I want that on my permanent medical record? I blink and decide to pay out of pocket for now. I’ll cross that road at another time.

I am beckoned in to have my blood pressure taken. Yeah, that shouldn’t be too high, especially for one afflicted with white coat syndrome (artificially high blood pressure due to anxiety about having your blood pressure taken). But to my surprise it’s 113 over something.

Maybe I’m more at ease about all of this than I thought.

I then meet my NP (I’m new to the world of medical acronyms, but officially Family Nurse Practitioner, Board Certified. FNP-BC for short. NP for really short). Regardless, she is a delight and let’s me nervously share my story over the next half hour. She intersperses my running dialogue with head nods and comments like, yup, that’s normal.

Normal. Not a word I ever expected to hear when it came to being transgender.

She seems satisfied with my story, progress and therapy, and innocuously asks if I want to continue my hormones. That catches me off guard as I was expecting to be reprimanded for my previous self-medication and taken off all hormones until I had proceeded further down “official” channels.

I think about it and nod my assent. Yes, I would. The subtle changes so far are welcome, and I feel like I’m making progress. She gives me a release to sign about the hazards of estrogen and before long I have my prescriptions.

She then catches me off guard a second time with another question. What pronoun would I like to use? I suddenly have a vision of the Bugs Bunny cartoon with Daffy Duck, Rabbit Seasoning, where Bugs repeatedly tricks Elmer Fudd into shooting Daffy.

Daffy Duck: Let’s run through that again.

Bugs Bunny: Okay.

Bugs Bunny: Wouldja like to shoot me now or wait till you get home?

Daffy Duck: Shoot him now, shoot him now.

Bugs Bunny: You keep outta this. He doesn’t hafta shoot you now.

Daffy Duck: Ha! That’s it! Hold it right there! Pronoun trouble.

Daffy Duck: It’s not: “He doesn’t have to shoot *you* now.” It’s: “He doesn’t have to shoot *me* now.” Well, I say he does have to shoot me now!

I don’t think I’m ready for “pronoun troubles” just yet and request that we just use “DiG” for now. Pronouns can be sorted out on another day.

I then get my blood taken and finally depart for the front desk. As I’m about to pay, I decide, screw it. I am transgender. I circled the damn word on the form. Damn the torpedoes, let’s submit to my insurance company and let the chips fall where they may.

Okay, I may be brave, but I still torture analogies with the best of ’em.

I leave Beth Israel feeling great. And again can’t suppress a laugh.

You, my friend, are officially transgender.

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.

—

After my appointment at Beth Israel Medical Center, my day continues with two more reveals.

Damn the torpedoes, etc, etc.

The thing is, as happy as I am about my appointment at Beth Israel, I’m still nervous. Really nervous. And this time it’s mostly my own doing.

I dropped an email to a former coworker, and to be honest, I’m not sure how he will take the news. I mean, he’s a really good guy. But he’s a guy’s guy. And we hung out together as guys.

To complicate the problem, I phrased the email asking to have lunch rather awkwardly, leaving him to believe I had dire news to share with him. Like I’m dying of cancer news.

And don’t just take my word for it. Enjoy my masterfully subtle email:

Long time no talk. I was wondering if you have some time next week to get together. I have a few things I’d like to fill you in on before things go public, so to speak.

Yeah, I’m an idiot. A cute idiot, but an idiot nonetheless.

We connect for lunch and I can see the look of concern on his face.

Are you okay? I’m here for you, man.

If I weren’t so nervous, this would be a pretty funny episode of Three’s Company.

So on the way to the restaurant I assure him. Not gay. Not dying of cancer. You can cross those two off your list. Though I do admit to working on a really crazy cover story to mess with his mind. “Yeah, I’m starting a porn site and I want you to be the star.” Something that would elicit Billy Bob Thornton’s classic line from Bad Santa, “Are you fucking with me?”

We settle in at a Chinese restaurant and I start my spiel. Deep breath aaaaand… transgender.

He is immediately and unabashedly happy for me. He tells me about a trans friend with whom he is helping to create a vast photography project. He is crazy supportive. And not in the let’s-talk-about-fantasy-football way I have come to expect from guys.

I know I sound like a broken record, but I am blessed with an extraordinary collection of friends. I never thought I would receive so much support. In a way, I feel guilty for doubting them.

Amusingly, the guy sitting behind him is trying to eavesdrop on the conversation. Not sure if I can blame him as it is probably the juiciest conversation in the whole restaurant. I am tempted to ask him if he needs me to repeat anything but I let it go. This is a day for being positive, not jaded. That can come next month.

We part with a hug, an honest-to-god hug, and I head back to work in a great mood. But I still have one more coming out tonight, with a young woman I used to work with. A wonderfully sweet girl.

We meet for drinks and after some idle chitchat, I launch into my standard pitch. Moving to New York, yada, yada. Stuttering, blah, blah, blah. Aaaaand… transgender.

She is fascinated by my story and by my journey and we have the most delightful evening talking about being transgender, being a girl, shaving legs, the effects of hormones and nicknames for breasts.

Yup, I go there. I mean, guys always have the raunchiest words for breasts. Melons, knockers, hooters… hell, they don’t even need to be real words. Gozongas, yabbos, hoohas. But I’m intrigued to discover what words women use when guys aren’t around. And I get two delightful examples.

The Girls. And the Twins.

I must admit that I don’t exactly have women’s breasts at the moment, but if and when I do, at least I’ll know what to call them.

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.

—

If it’s Tuesday, I must be in NYC.

And this time I’m excited. Really excited. It’s time to tell my current boss, a former colleague and a friend from my days at AOL. Our current gig together is wrapping up shortly, so even if, on the oft chance it does go south, it shouldn’t be too awkward for too long.

I actually was hoping to tell her last week as part of my initial reveal, but fate has a funny way of tossing you curveballs, and I prefer to go with the flow.

Another mutilated analogy. <sigh> I fear you’ll have to get used to that, as Captain Jack Aubrey appears to have become my muse.

Back to the story at hand, we opt to have our chat in the office since everyone else clears out for lunch. I’m surprisingly NOT terrified, though I can feel my heart thumping in my chest.

Deep breath.

She reacts much the way I had hoped. She smiles infectiously, is so genuinely thrilled, and gives me a big hug, before leaping into a million questions.

As usual, I only have so many answers. This is step two of my master plan. Step one, the hair ties on my wrist. Step two, no more hiding. Step three, the evolution of boy and modes. Steps four and beyond, not sure yet. One step at a time, each step in its own time.

But the questions are wonderful. It allows me to dispel myths about being transgender. It allows me to share details of my journey, not what other might assume or guess it to be. And perhaps most importantly, it allows me to talk about something I’ve never been able to talk about openly. I don’t think animated conversations with myself in the mirror quite count.

I tell her about my blog (this blog) and she thinks it’s a fantastic idea. An opportunity to share, an opportunity to teach.

Life being what it is, we only have an hour, but she promises me a shopping trip. “We are going to have a so much fun dressing you up!” I smile. I’ll take all the help I can get.

We hug again, and it’s good. Really good. In fact, we are much closer than before our chat. There seems to be a bond of friendship created, at least between women (well, in my case, almost woman), when confessing emotional vulnerabilities and sharing a part of one’s soul. It was the case with the first woman I came out to last week and it happens again here. After all this anxiety, after all this fear, I feel so blessed to have such wonderful friends.

The day passes and I head for another reveal in my black women’s high tops. They don’t look like women’s high tops, they are fairly androgynous, but I know, and it feels like progress.

I grab drinks in midtown with a former coworker, another woman. But this time the response is a bit more sedate. Not bad, just sedate. But I’ll take what I can get, and after an hour, I bound off to therapy.

My therapist seems genuinely surprised at my progress. I mean, I’ve come out to, what nine people? I’m starting to lose count. But I tell her I like to jump off cliffs every few years. I like the unknown. I like the exhilaration. I might even like the fear.

It’s another hugely positive session and I leave feeling happy and alive and ready to conquer the world. Okay, maybe not the world, maybe just my corner of it.