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.

—

My youngest heads to school at zero dark thirty Monday morning, and I decide today is boy mode. No need to push it. I have all the time in the world, to paraphrase Louis Armstrong from On Her Majesty’s Secret Service. As long as I’m not shot by Blofeld in the end, I should be good.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not making progress.

Now that I’ve told my youngest, I can literally come out of the closet. Or at least my wardrobe can.

But first things first. I need to pack up my comic book collection from the Ikea shelves in my bedroom. Yes, I am a geek. A divorced geek. And to quote Jonathan Coulton, “Ikea: selling furniture for college kids and divorced men.”

It’s a long process as I need to catalogue what goes in the short boxes (didn’t I tell you I’m a geek?), but I finally start to create some space. One shelf unit for girl t-shirts. Another for yoga pants and jeans. And a third for long skirts.

It’s a small step. But a big one at the same time. No more hiding.

Before long, my youngest comes home from school, and we start to discuss what adjective we should use to describe this experience.

I mean, it’s crazy. And it’s nuts. And it’s insane. But we need something non-disparaging we can both use to get across the fact that this is not exactly what someone expects out of life.

Weird? Too negative.

Odd? Ditto.

Strange? Houston, we have a problem.

Funky? Hmmm… this one has potential. As in, this music is funky (hopefully not like, that cheese smells funky).

To quote Urban Dictionary: Different, but cool/nice.

Yeah, I kinda like that.

Funky.

Ladies and gentlemen, I think we have a winner.

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 comes and I decide I’d like to spend the day in girl mode.

My youngest is cool with it (again), so I change into a long burgundy skirt. My top is another story. I find myself trying on a series of different long sleeve t-shirts. Too fat. Too tight. Too bright. Too sexy (!). I then put on the one that looks just right. The black one. Modest, slimming and appropriate for a lazy Sunday.

Just like a girl, right?

I come downstairs, no clogs this time, and my youngest smiles again. Skirt or yoga pants, I ask.

Definitely skirt. This one’s a charmer.

We spend the day catching up on Sleepy Hollow. A normal Sunday with my youngest. But in girl mode.

I am a lucky man. Or girl. Or whatever. Not sure how that works yet.

In between episodes I decide to paint my toenails. Unfortunately, I’m still at the stage of painting more than the just the nails and sheepishly scrape the excess polish off my toes. Not as much as on previous attempts, but it’d be nice to master the art of toenail painting eventually.

Night comes and my youngest votes pizza for dinner. Okay, let me change into boy mode for the delivery guy. No need to freak out the locals. Let’s give that a few more weeks.

My youngest gives me a look and says, no, let’s pay cash and I’ll handle it.

For a moment I feel a little weird about that. As if I’m hiding. And I’m done with hiding. But they talk me into it.

Pizza ordered, pizza arrives and it’s all good.

Now it’s important that you know something about me. I am incapable of eating dinner without dripping stain-inducing blobs of food on myself. Usually when I’m wearing a white shirt. But the burgundy skirt goes with the sauce, so it doesn’t portend to be a complete disaster. That said, I’ve learned to drape a tea towel over my skirt when I eat. And shockingly no spills this time.

We end the evening with me still in girl mode and it’s wonderful. I literally have never spent the day with someone whilst in girl mode. Ever. And the best part is that it’s starting to feel almost “normal.”

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.: My youngest, the other key figure below, has since come out as non-binary. After chatting with them, we made the decision to update their pronouns accordingly.

I wake up early Saturday and my mind is racing. About everything.

And in a moment of extreme clarity (or extreme insanity), I make a decision.

I’m selling the house and moving to NYC (and yes, the line, “Fuck it, I’m going to Narnia” does run through my head).

Why? To be brutally honest, nothing is keeping me in Maryland once both my kids are in school. Because NYC is one of the few places that might accept me for who I really am. More so than Maryland at least. At least I won’t get stares for colorful hair ties on my wrist.

I suddenly feel free. To be who I am. To start a new life.

That said, I wouldn’t be moving until August, but I feel like the decision has been made. The dice have been rolled. So let it be written, so it shall be done. Blah, blah, blah.

I start padding around the house (in boy mode) exclaiming wildly, I don’t need THAT. Or THAT. Or THAT chair. GONE!

It’s like I’m purging my old life to get ready for my new one. Amazing year indeed.

My youngest wakes up and I tell them my decision. And we are perhaps closer than we’ve ever been. Laughing, joking, dancing. Okay, I’m dancing, they’re staring at me like I’ve lost yet another marble.

They work at the nearby movie theater and due to Computer Tsunami 2014, my playlist has been stagnant for nearly three weeks. Why don’t you provide the music for our drive?

They look at me, think for a moment, then smile and say, yeah, that’d be cool.

We get in the car, they fire up their iPhone and selects the first song. A Brony song.

Pony, pony, blah blah blah, then…

Isn’t it great to be different?
Isn’t it wonderful to be exactly who you are?
When you learn to start accepting yourself
You’ll become a shining star

We hit a stop light and I ask them to hit pause. They stare at me, a little taken aback.

I laugh through another bout of tears and tell them I’d like to get them to work without crashing the damn car due to another crying jag.

We both laugh and it’s all good. In other wave of synchronicity, the song is by Forest Rain, their favorite Brony musician. And transgender.

It seems the person I feared who would be the least understanding of my plight is perhaps the most supportive. Genuinely supportive.

Perhaps this won’t be so lonely and scary after all.

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.: My youngest, the other key figure below, has since come out as non-binary. After chatting with them, we made the decision to update their pronouns accordingly.

As if my harrowing day in NYC was not enough, I decide to bite the bullet and tell my youngest child when I get home.

Age 17. Senior in high school. Interested in art school. And a Brony.

I’m not good at waiting and I don’t want them to think my moodiness has anything to do with them.

So I come home and announce I have something to tell them. Something I’ve hidden from the world for 40 years. And no, I’m not gay.

In a flash, I get a vision of them not responding well. Of never wanting to see me again. Of being ashamed of me. And I lose it. In front of them.

I try to gather myself up, but tears are streaming down my face. Deep breath. REALLY deep breath.

So I dive into my sixth (!!!!!!) admission of the day (are you nuts!?!) and finally speak the words, I am transgender.

I look up and they are staring at me expressionless. Nothing. Nada.

Not good. REALLY not good.

So I start to babble. This is me babbling. Oh wow have I have become good at babbling. Then I pause.

Wait a minute…

Do you know what the word “transgender” means?

No.

Omigod, omigod, omigod. It’s second chance time. Like losing a football game on a missed kick, then seeing that glorious roughing the kicker flag.

Well, it’s kinda like Eddie Izzard (who we went to see in D.C. and ran into in London at the Monty Python Reunion show).

After more babbling, my youngest stops me and tells me they are totally fine with it. Really. Their favorite Brony musician is transgender. Their Facebook picture is a photo of them with the same transgender musician.

I am so relieved. I am so lucky. I am so blessed. They’re even intrigued to see me in “girl” mode.

We hug and while I can’t stop the tears, I can stop the fear, the panic, for at least one night.

But morning comes early for parents of high school students. 6:10 to be exact and while all is good between us, not all is good between my ears.

They leave for school at 6:30 and within minutes I’m sobbing in the bathroom. Everything that I’ve been holding in from the previous day comes tumbling out. Hell, everything I’ve been holding in for 40 years.

I finally pull myself together, throw on my yoga pants and an eggplant long sleeve women’s ribbed tee over my bra. I tie my hair in a side ponytail, put on hoop earrings and my clogs, and appraise myself in the mirror. Not too shabby. A little cute, actually. Very understated. Very non-threatening (I hope).

3:00 comes and I hear the front door open, my youngest returning from school. I’m upstairs, so I give them a minute to get settled in, then text, Do you mind seeing girl mode?

Silence.

After five tortuous minutes, I add, should I take that as a no? 😉

More silence. A LOT more silence

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Then my phone buzzes. Sorry, the cat sat on me and I feel asleep. I would not mind.

Deep breath. Deep breath.  Don’t hyperventilate. Deep breath.

I come down the stairs and my youngest is waiting for me. They break into a broad smile and says, Wow, you look really nice.

Either they means it or they’re going to do really well with women. Either way, score!

I spend the next few hours in girl mode. With someone I know. With someone I love. Who isn’t freaked out by it.

Life is good. Scary, but really, really good.

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.

—

Today is the day. The day I start telling people I’m transgender.

And I am terrified.

It begins with an early morning breakfast with an old friend from my days at AOL. She was a coworker, a boss, then I replaced her as boss when she moved on to bigger and better things. But most importantly, she’s a friend. That said, I haven’t seen her in person in something like seven years.

We meet at a small cafe and she looks fantastic. We chit chat for a bit, and I tell her I have some news. Big news. I’m scared and grinning at the same time, but dive into my little spiel.

I take a deep breath and with a wry smile, spit out, I’m transgender.

Her reaction brings tears to my eyes. She is beamingly happy for me. Thrilled. I think I’m going through a mini bout of post-traumatic stress after 40 years of secrets, shame and denial, but the happiness in her eyes, her unbridled joy, her love, carry me through the moment.

We talk about the joys of yoga pants, crying jags brought on by hormones, overly sensitive nipples. She asks me a million questions and it’s awesome. We are both SO overjoyed and I am SO relieved.

Welcome to the club, she says and I can’t remember the last time I was this happy. After all these years of shame, secrets and hiding, I’m being accepted for who I am. And it’s awesome.

An hour passes and we both need to run, but she gives me a long hug and tells me I’m going to have an amazing year. I smile through wet eyes and realize she’s right. I’ve been so caught up in THIS moment of revelation that I haven’t really thought about the future. Deep breath.

We part closer than when we met and I am over the moon.

But I have another morning meeting, this time with a guy I used to consult for. Another coffee does wonders for my nerves and as we catch up, he let’s me know he would love to work with me again.

I wasn’t planning on sharing my news, my big news. A few close friends and see where it goes.

But this is tear-off-the-band-aid time. Hell, it’s tear-off-the-damn-scab time.

So I tell him and he doesn’t blink. Literally. But he is genuinely happy for me and tells me the offer still stands. I try to explain that I’m still figuring things out, but I’m happy to show up to meetings in boy mode, this is business after all with paying clients — and he cuts me off.

No. You need to be who you are.

I am so blown away. I mean, first off, two-for-two. Second off, unconditional support I had never believed was possible.

I thank him from the bottom of my heart and make him promise to keep this under his hat for another week until I can tell his business partner who I’ve known for 15 years. I don’t want people finding out through the grapevine. I want to let them learn about my journey on my terms, so they can see how genuine I am at this crossroad in my life.

I mean, it’s not like a midlife crisis choice between being transgender or, say, buying a motorcycle. Hmmmm… heels or a Harley? I’ll chose the heels.

We shake hands in a most manly way and I hop the subway back to my office, realizing suddenly I’m committed. I mean, I’ve really gone public with this. Screw band-aids and scabs. I’ve just jumped off the the damn cliff.

I get to my office and three of my coworkers are there. No time like the present, right?

It feels a little like a movie montage, only it’s my life…

Colleague #1: I’m still nervous. I’m still REALLY nervous as I’m about to tell someone with whom I’ve worked all-nighters for the past three years. I mean, I know he’ll be supportive. But I don’t know he’ll be supportive, if that makes sense. Despite having quit smoking some time ago, I ask if he wants to go out for a smoke. I do my little little dance, big breath, and tell him. He grins and tells me how happy he is for me. Big hug. Another deep breath. Hell, another cigarette. I go into more details, but I am starting to sense guys just want to be happy for me and move on to fantasy football. We end with a handshake, another manly handshake, and talk about our fantasy football starters for the week.

Colleague #2: One would think it’d be getting a bit easier by now, but it isn’t. My next reveal is with someone I hired a few years back, a woman. A cis woman. Again, I know she’ll be supportive, but there’s always that doubt in the back of your mind. As I gather up my courage, she tells me to take a deep breath. Yeah, definitely not easier. Deep breath and I come clean. She smiles broadly and tells me how fantastic it is that I’m coming out. We chat for a little more and she tells me if there is anything I ever need, just to ask. No handshake this time, but I’ll definitely be asking her for makeup tips in the future. She has some of the best makeup I’ve seen, period. #jealous

Colleague #3: One more and I’m done with NYC for the day. Maybe because we haven’t worked together for all that long, this one is a little easier. Again, he takes it in stride. Is very happy for me. We share a few personal details on life struggles. Handshake. Fantasy football.

Five for five. Not too shabby. But all I want to do is to crawl into the bathroom and cry. I am SO emotionally spent. I decide to head home early, thank everyone for their wonderful support and make a beeline to the train back to Maryland.

Once on the train, I realize I can’t break down with a person sitting next to me. And Amtrak bathrooms do not good crying chambers make. I finally get back to my car and dissolve into tears. There is a mixture of a) have you lost your freakin’ mind! b) you have the best friends EVER! c) have you lost your FREAKIN’ mind! and d) you can do this.

I drive home and realize I have one more person to tell tonight. My youngest child, who, perhaps, isn’t so young anymore being 17 years old and all.

But let’s leave THAT little bit of terror for tomorrow.

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.

—

And on Wednesday, I rested.

I guess now seems as good a time as any to address some questions about being transgender. Or at least as they relate to my thoughts and experiences.

There are a lot of articles out there about what it means to be transgender, and some of them seem to castigate folks for asking “inappropriate” questions or using the wrong words.

My approach is a little different, and let me reiterate that I speak only for myself, but I think allowing people the freedom to ask questions is a step in the right direction. We need to educate people, not discourage them from learning about what it means to be transgender.

Despite what Thomas Gray might suggest, ignorance is not bliss. So I’ll take the awkward questions and try to answer them as best I can. If it comes from a good place, it’s all good.

To that point, I offer up the first in a series of questions I’ve had to ask myself and expect others to ask, or at least have in their head as I come out of the proverbial closet.

Are you gay?

Asking a transgender person if they’re gay poses problems all itself. Because at some point, if I transition, odds are I will be gay.

To put it simply, I’m not into guys and I still like women. So think of me as a lesbian stuck in a man’s body.

As I say, this can get a little confusing.

Are you a queen?

My understanding is that a queen is gay man who dresses flamboyantly as a woman for entertainment purposes. In essence, a female impersonator. This is not about impersonating a woman, it’s about being who I am.

So nope, not a queen.

Are you on hormones?

Yes. Estrogen and anti-androgens that block male hormones.

What’s it like to be on hormones?

On the estrogen side of the ledger, I cry a lot more easily, especially the first week. As in I ball my eyes out at sappy commercials. Damn you, Madison Avenue! My skin has gotten softer, my hair shinier and my nipples are crazy sensitive. And not in an erotic way. As in if I clip them on the edge of the table whilst at work, I need to pause and go, “Oh baby, that hurts.” I am in the early stages of hormones, so I am getting some breast development but nothing noticeable when wearing a loose shirt. Except perhaps that my nipples protrude when the air conditioning is on high.

On the anti-androgen side, I don’t get erections anymore. Nothing. Nada. Zip. To quote “One Night in Bangkok,” I get my kicks above the waistline, sunshine.

Are you planning on becoming a woman?

I honestly don’t know. That’s what this journey is all about. I might find that “boy” mode is enough. Long fingernails and a bit more of my feminine side front and center. Think of me as the American version of Eddie Izzard. Only not as funny. Or I may find that that is not enough and “girl” mode is more my speed. But I’m looking forward to finding out. It’s an exhilarating ride so far, and terrifying, but I’m so much happier right now. It’s funny, I find myself grinning a lot more, so I’m pretty sure I’m headed in the direction. All I can say is, stay tuned.

What about your “junk”?

Well, I still have my “junk.” It doesn’t do a whole due to the anti-androgens at present, so again we’ll see how this plays out.

Are you sure you’re not gay? 

This was a big hurdle for me to overcome. I am cool with being gay or bi or whatever. I am cool if people think I’m gay or bi or whatever. But right now, I’m only interested in girls. That said, if Captain Jack Harkness and his 51st century pheromones made a pass at me, I don’t think I would turn him down. But let’s face it, who would?

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.

—

In an ironic twist of fate, I’m now looking forward to my therapy. Looking forward to that elevator ride to the 10th floor.

I can’t wait to share all the progress I’ve made in the past week.

Our rapport is improving and she seems a little surprised and a little impressed with my progress. I mean, 40 years of no movement, then something a little bigger than baby steps. Toddler steps?

I realize I need to help her to understand how I’m wired.

So I tell her about my stuttering.

You see, I grew up with two secrets. The second you know. The first was that I stuttered. And stuttering in grade school does not a good school experience make. I got into a lot of fights. But there’s not a lot you can do to combat that when your nickname becomes J-j-j-j-j.

But I was a smart kid. So I figured out which words I stuttered on and created a vocabulary to circumvent them.

Problem solved right? Not really.

Speaking became an adventure as I literally ran every word, every sentence through my head before I said it out loud, scanning constantly for the danger words of the day. But I soon got the hang of it and everyone thought my stutter went away.

Fast forward 20 years, and my oldest son develops a stutter. And I am devastated.

I did this to him. My genes did this to him, and I can’t hide it anymore. So I take him to a speech pathologist who asks about family history, and my secret comes out. Well, the stuttering one does. My son quickly improves with a series of games like blowing through a straw to develop better speech control, but she tells me I need to confront my stuttering. I need to face my fear.

The first step is to put up a poster in my office at work about stuttering. The second is to tell people that I stutter. These steps serve to reduce the fear of people discovering my secret, my lifelong shame. Sound familiar?

The final step is to use any word I avoid in the next sentence. This prevents me from building up fear around single words or sounds. It’s terrifying at first and at times my dialogue circles round and round until I spit out danger words like “editor” and “Guinness.”

Fast forward another 10 years and you can’t shut me up. Seriously. Ask anyone I know, especially my kids. I am a chatterbox, usually the first person to offer an opinion in a meeting because I don’t need to filter myself anymore. Perhaps I should, but, god, it is so liberating to speak without fear.

This is a long way of saying that I decided to take the same approach with my transition.

And step one is the poster, or in my case, the hair ties around my wrist.

Step two? Telling people. And that little bit of terror starts this week.

Stay tuned.

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.

—

Remember when my therapist told me to get my blood checked? And how I stalled before telling my ex-wife, who already knew I was transgender, that I was transgender?

You can probably work out where I stand with setting up an appointment for my blood work.

A little background is in order.

I’ve done a lot of online research about hormone therapy. And we all know how reliable the internet is. In fact, my Nigerian investment should be coming through any day now. So self-medicating hormones based on online research, what could possibly go wrong?

You see, it’s not that hard to get prescription drugs through places like Canada and India. So over the past three years (and law enforcement folks, please note this is what we like to call in trade “hypothetical”), I’ve experimented with various hormones and hormone blockers to see what would happen. Kinda like dropping Mentos in a 2-liter bottle of Coke.

I’ve taken hormones in fits and starts… usually stopping in a panic with internal dialogue along the lines of a) have you lost your mind!?!?! b) is my chest getting puffy? c) I don’t usually cry this much, d) don’t I have a doctor’s appointment next month?

Long story short, I’ve taken about nine months worth of hormones and anti-androgens (male hormone blockers) over the past three years. Specifically…

•  Estradiol: 2mg daily
•  Estradot Patch: 50mcg twice weekly
•  Provera: 10 mg first 10 days of the month
•  Spironolactone: 100mg daily
•  Fincar: 5mg daily

So to fulfill my promise to make progress every day, I decide to set up an appointment to get my blood checked. My therapist gave me two names and I do some online research. And hey, look, I can make the appointment online. No terrifying phone call required.

But something inside of me stirs. Am I being a coward? Again. When will I stop being ashamed of who I am? If I can’t accept myself, how can I expect others to?

Screw it.

I pick up my phone and call to make my appointment. I share my name and explain I’m transgender and need to come in for some blood work. The person on the other end of the line is extraordinarily nice, but her thick accent means I’m not 100% I know what I’m committing to. She starts talking about hormone injections…

WOAH!

I explain I don’t think I’m ready for that, so let’s just set up the appointment (for next week) and see where it goes.

I hang up the phone and can’t suppress a smile. I’m doing this. I’m actually doing this. And that’s pretty cool.

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.

—

My next big step is to come out to friends, co-workers and family about being transgender.

I decide to do a test run with my ex-wife since a) she knows I’m transgender, b) knows how our mutual friend might react and, you know, c) might have some insight on how our TWO KIDS WILL TAKE THE NEWS!!!

Not that I have much anxiety about THAT… <ahem>

After a series of postponements and delays, she finally makes it over late Sunday night.

I change from “girl” mode before she arrives, but let me first go off on a tangent and say how much I LOVE geeky girl t-shirts. I found the most awesome Bloo juniors T (from Foster’s Home for Imaginary Friends) and I gotta say I looked pretty cute in it with my fabulous yoga pants and clogs. I think this might become my go-to girl look at home.

Okay, tangent over.

My ex arrives and one would think this would be easy, but it’s not.

You see, I first told her 20 some years ago, the same night we got engaged. Right before we got engaged, in fact, in case it was a deal breaker for her.

She was very supportive back then, at least at first. Then not so much. I mean, she wanted to be supportive, but life doesn’t always play out the way you want it to. And I get that. The person you fall in love with, the MAN you fall in love with, probably shouldn’t have better legs than you. So I stopped dressing. At least in body. I’m not sure I stopped in mind.

Anyway, life happened and our marriage eventually fell apart. Not over being transgender, though that certainly didn’t help.

So we got separated. Got divorced. Amicable for the most part. Very amicable when compared to other divorces we witnessed from afar.

Moving back to present, I give her my rehearsed preamble. Oldest in college. Youngest a senior in high school and looking at art schools. Come summer 2015, there’s not much to keep me in Maryland other than the cat. So I’ve decided to move to New York City next year.

And I’m stalling. Look at me stall. It’s amazing how well I stall.

I’ve been going through some self-examination, yada yada yada. I’ve started therapy, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

Deep breath.

I’ve finally accepted that I’m transgender and I don’t want to hide it anymore. I don’t know where this journey is going to take me, but I’m excited to see where it’s going to end up. And scared. Definitely scared out of my freakin’ mind.

She smiles warmly and tells me she’s thrilled for me — and asks if I want a hug.

Oh god, yes.

We embrace and so much pent up shame/relief/fear/stress/you-name-it from the past 40 years comes pouring out.

We spend another hour together, me sharing my heart with her and her being more supportive than I had hoped.

Maybe our marriage wasn’t destined to last, but to quote the wonderful Paul Williams from “Here’s Another Fine Mess”…

We loved for a while, you can’t call that losing
If I knew our love was gonna end this way
I’d live it over and I wouldn’t change a day…

I just hope she isn’t still jealous of my legs.

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.

—

Computer Tsunami 2014 continues.

This time I travel to Montgomery Mall, nearer to my house to pick up my fifth computer in two weeks.

Boy mode. Mall. Hair ties.

And with my confidence at an all-time high from Friday, I stride through the mall, feeling really good about myself. It is then that I notice several extended stares from guys. At the hair ties on my wrist.

And then another stare. And another. Exaggerated double takes and looks of disbelief.

Over a few multi-colored hairbands.

Seriously, guys?

But instead of getting depressed. Instead of shame, I am defiant.

I am transgender, hear me roar, right? Fuck this shit. This is who I am.

I catch the eyes of a few of these guys, usually with their girlfriends in tow, oblivious to this interplay, and give the guys my look of defiance. And probably a little bit of, you wanna make something of this?

It seems to catch them off guard and they shuffle off, their eyes fixedly on the ground.

God, it feels great.

Ellen Ripley. Sarah Connor. Beatrix Kiddo. Eat your hearts out.

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.

—

Amidst all of this talk of transitioning, I’ve been dealing with what I like to understatedly call Computer Tsunami 2014.

Short version is that I’ve burned through three MacBook Pros in a week (cue primal scream).

Since my work IT is responsible for two-thirds of those burnouts, I set off to the Apple Store in Tyson’s corner to deal with my personal MacBook Pro cataclysm.

Good news. It turns out there is a Joint Venture program with Apple that gets you a loaner computer when your current computer is about to depart for repairs.

Boom. Done.

I’m stoked… I leave the store and realize, hey, I’m in a mall. A big mall. An awesome mall.

I stare at my hair ties for strength and say, screw it. I’m going to window shop women’s clothing and shoes without shame for the first time in my life.

And, well, it’s amazing.

Oh wow, I love that scarf. Great skirt. Ooohhh, I like that color. Killer boots.

In the past, I would have pretended to tie my shoe whilst waiting for the crowds to pass before surreptitiously sneaking a peak at a Cache or lower-case bebe shop window. Or even feigning going in the wrong in direction so I could pass by a shoe display a second or third time.

Remember, my desire to transition began well before this thing we called the World Wide Web existed. Or even before that of the wonder that is the Amazon rainforest of clothes.

And a funny thing happens along the way. I find my confidence is building. And I’m getting pleasant smiles from women who wouldn’t give me the time of the day in the past.

Who knows… maybe this is going to work out just fine.

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.

—

And on the fourth day, I rested.

Better known as… if it’s Thursday, I must be emotionally spent.

But good can come from an emotional gas tank on empty. Sometimes that’s when we learn the most about ourselves.

And today I learned I am defiant. As evidenced, surprisingly, by seven hair ties around my left wrist. Black. Brown. Red. Pink. Purple. Turquoise. And leopard print.

I know it’s stupid, but these hair ties represent, in some weird way, who I really am whilst in “boy mode.” Something I can look at when I start to have my doubts. In other words, all the freakin’ time.

But figuring out who you really are is tough when you’re transgender.

Speaking only for myself (and that’s a very important distinction, by the way), I’ve experienced, over the course of literally decades, what I can only describe as distinct phases, starting with exploration, objectification (better known as the “stripper phase”) to this past year as an alternative “female” construct of myself (“Jenni”).

But my most recent epiphany is fueled by Eddie Izzard, very quickly becoming my patron saint. I now have a “boy mode” — the version of me that I am comfortable sharing in public, and “girl mode” who still lives safely at home usually only on weekends. But it’s this crazy, funny, feisty, smart and hopefully sexy “girl” who I aspire to be in public.

But, and this is important (and, yes, we’re be talking about my big but), being in “girl mode” doesn’t mean I lose who I’ve been for literally 48 years. It doesn’t mean I stop watching football. Or Doctor Who. Or kick-ass adventure movies.

Hell, no.

This is only a sliver of the entirety of me. Okay, perhaps a slice. Or may be even a big, it’s-your-birthday-and you’re-allowed-to-splurge sized shard of birthday cake. But regardless of how tasty that piece of cake is, it’s still only a part of me.

Yeah, sorry. That analogy ran off the rails a bit.

In any event, my hope is that I can show the world who I really feel like on the inside. And speaking of kick-ass adventure movies, I’m hoping that woman is a little like Ellen Ripley, Beatrix Kiddo and Sarah Connor.

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 have decided I want to make progress every day on my transgendered adventure.

This is day three.

So I book myself an appointment at Edris to get my hair cut. Androgynous when tied in a ponytail, more feminine when worn long.

I proudly declare that I am transgendered (here me roar!) when making the appointment. By email.

The fear returns, admittedly mixed with excitement, as I arrive for my evening appointment. LaTasha (with whom I had emailed) warmly welcomes me in, putting me at ease. Mostly.

I then meet Todd who will be cutting my hair this evening. I admit that I’m still a little nervous. Okay, a LOT nervous, but before I know it, I’m telling him all about my hair (frizzy), my transgendered life (scary), how I want to wear it (swept over).

After a calming shampoo and rinse, Todd starts on my hair. And I have the most pleasant conversation about being transgendered. Ever.

He then asks if I want my hair blow dried. Sure, why not?

Maybe it’s because this is my first time getting a woman’s hair cut, but I am guessing this is code for, make my hair as straight as humanly possible. And my hair does not do straight.

Except that under HIS blow dryer and hair iron, my hair is STRAIGHT. Jennifer Aniston straight. And it’s combed over in a feminine style. I’m a little freaked out, but I can’t help but grin. This is pretty awesome.

I then ask about the gray streaks in my hair and what I should do about them. And I get back the best news of the night. With the color of my hair (brunette), the gray hair acts as a natural highlight. So there’s that.

It is at this point that Todd notices my long nails. “Do you manicure your own nails?” I sheepishly nod my assent. “They look great!” He then calls over LaTasha and I have the most wonderful conversation about my nails. Nails that I have hidden during meetings. Nails that I have hidden at bars. Nails that I have been ashamed of. And for the first time in my life, I feel happy about them. We talk about my style in clothing, boots, makeup and I don’t want the evening to end.

Best line of the night, “I love your cheekbones.” Score!

But it has been two hours so I ask if my hair will tie up in a ponytail for my walk back to the hotel.

“It should.”

AAAGGGGGHHHH! Are you freakin’ kiddin’ me?

But tie up it does, and I share my heartfelt gratitude for a magical evening before heading out.

I finally arrive back at my hotel room and play with my straight hair in the mirror.

Jennifer Aniston, you can eat your heart out.

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.

—

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’ve been struggling with gender identity for most of my life.

It feels so freeing to say that now.

It was 40 years ago, literally, that I crossdressed for the first time. I was eight years old and tried on a cute little dress in the basement of a local thrift shop. And it made me feel so… alive. Almost electric.

But I’ve hidden that part of me from the world, purged it, denied it — if it’s a stage of death and dying — I’ve done it.

So in the past week I decided this is no longer tolerable. To quote All That Jazz (and Dr. Kübler-Ross on the final stage of death and dying), “I accept!”

I am transgender, hear me roar… and I’ll be damned if I’m going to be ashamed of it anymore.

So I bit the bullet and made two appointments for this week. One with a gender specialist and a second with a hair stylist to get my hair cut in a more feminine style (finally!).

I am so excited right now. I’m sure the fear will creep in, but right now, I am stupid, giggly happy.