My life as a chick

bra-shopping
So much variety!  Too many choices!

Not everything associated with transitioning is a landmark event, as with going to court to change one’s name.  Here is a lighthearted and completely true look at some of the normally-less-than-noteworthy noteworthy things of my life these days, as I regularly say to myself, “I never experienced that when I was a guy!”

Getting a heal stuck in soft asphalt

The first time this ever happened to me, it happened three times. It was a few weeks ago. We were heading into church. Because I am 6’1″, I don’t wear high heels, but I do have some nice shoes with short, spiky heels. We parked for church and departed the car. Squish! There went the first one, stuck in a tar-patched spot in the parking lot. Nearly losing my shoe as I pulled it out, two steps later I did it again. As if that were not enough, after church I managed to land on the same spot for number three. Yet, I can claim a small victory: I did not lose my shoe any of the times.

Hair in my mouth

In the late ‘70s, my hair was pretty long—the style of the day—reaching below my ears and down the back of my neck. But it never was long enough to reach my mouth. Now, this long hair business has me constantly yanking hair from my mouth or spitting it out, finding myself ranging from bemused to amused.

Don’t get me wrong: I LOVE having long hair. But when I am sampling a dish I am cooking, and lean over to take a taste off the spoon, and my hair joins the food causing me to wind up with sticky hair, um, yeah, that’s a bit frustrating, and that leads me to . . .

Wearing barrettes

The more I’ve gotten hair in my mouth, the more I am remembering to put in barrettes, on either side of my head, above my ears. Even when mowing and gardening. But not yet when jogging.

Fuming when I tear a fingernail

Do I even have to elaborate? It seems that just as I am getting some fingernails to a nice length, I do something to catch one and tear it, and then have to cut it short and, ugh, start all over again.

Bra shopping

Of all the things I’ve done in my life, this has to top The Weirdest List. Yes, weirder than using women’s restrooms. Yes, more bizarre than any other aspect of transitioning.

A year ago, on the first occasion of doing this—yes, Julie was with me—I was thankful to land a sales associate who was very kind and helpful. She made me so comfortable that when I was having trouble finding the right fit, she stood outside the dressing room door and convinced me to let her see the bra on me, so she could better help. “Oh, gravy,” I thought, but I did it. She treated me as I am sure she would treat any woman, and I was able to relax.

I’ve, um, grown since that day of July, 2015, and Julie and I need to do this again. No, I am not looking forward to it.

My arms bump into my breasts

When one transitions at my age, the motto is not “Busty or Bust!” And, no, despite the fact that hormones do not work as dramatically in older people as when younger ones transition, I am not going to get breast implants. I will grow what I grow and be content.

I am pleased to report that I am getting on just fine, thank you, which brings me to the topic at hand, or rather at arm, when one of them bumps the fleshy tissue which now extends from my chest way farther than it did a year ago.

Please, think me not silly, but I am so pleased to have grown my own breasts. They make me very happy.

Crying

I write about this very carefully. On the one hand, I want to make fun of this estrogen which is easily blamed for my having so, so many crying episodes. On the other hand, I don’t want to make fun of women or the reality of what can lead one to be a quick crier.

Before I became a minister, I managed a department that was staffed almost exclusively by women. A couple of them wept easily, in delicate situations. I got so frustrated. I had no clue as to why the tears came so quickly. The one time I had to have a serious conversation with the only man in our department, not only did he not cry, he dug in his heals. Ah, testosterone!

Goodness, my waterworks can come on at the silliest sweet or sad moment in a movie, or seeing news of a child who died in an accident, or—true story—something goes horribly wrong when I am preparing a meal. The day a favorite glass bowl literally broke in my hand, spilling the beloved leftovers onto the kitchen floor, I was inconsolable!

Keeping my eyebrows trimmed

Guy me trimmed the middle and ends of his brows, never finding bushy brows to look good on this fact. Of course, gal me has them thinned way up.

This is doubly important for me because, with the brow bones of a genetic male, my brows do not sit as nicely above my eyes as a genetic female’s. So, at least once a week, I go at them. I have it down to a science. Sort of.

Letting others open a door for me

Wow, is this ever strange for me. Years of striving to be a gentlemen, I was quick to get doors for Julie and other women. Now, I am letting men open doors for me. And thanking them.

When it comes to Julie, we pretty much split the duty, one opening the door for the other, but I don’t open her car door anymore, though that’s generally a moot point. She usually beats me to the car.

Sitting to pee

And you thought I went too far with the bra shopping!

I KNEW you were expecting this. It’s the one that popped into your head as soon as you saw the theme of this post, and who am I to let you down?

Worry not, I will not elaborate. I will leave it at this and set off on pondering other ways my life is different as a chick.