I’m Disgusted—Who Cares About Him

I was shopping in the local thrift store looking for my size, and happily finding choices. More on that later, but an old fart and his wife walked into the store.

I say old fart, not because he’s aged. (He wasn’t much older than me), but because of his attitude. I was perusing the feminine racks dressed in masculine mode. I noticed the old fart because of his animated conversation with his wife. He was glaring at me and his thoughts were obvious.

I shrugged it off and went back to finding some great deals on pretty clothes. Before leaving, I saw the old fart again. I seemed to be his favorite irritation. The disgusted look on his face was priceless. I included a picture of Bill Cosby. His look is similar.

I’ve seen several reactions to my shopping over the years. Most of them were mitigated by my confidence in what I was doing, but that old fart wins the prize. Makes me wonder how much cross dressing he’s been doing.

You see, in my experience, most transphobia is a cover-up for people who think they are abnormal, but they can’t seem to overcome their addiction. Then like crabs in a bucket, pulling the escaping crabs back in, the old farts poke fun and pretend to be shocked and offended by those who honestly try to understand themselves.

As boys, we were taught that men don’t shop in the women’s section. When our wives and girlfriends take us with them, we must pretend to be miserable, like the men in the other picture.

Things are changing, but there are still a few old farts out there. Who cares what they do? I’m still big enough, and grouchy enough, to have taken the old fart apart at the knees, but I’m learning to let go of my ego.

Still and all, it was a great shopping trip. I came home with two pairs of capris, a white sleeveless blouse, and a beautiful pair of black pants to match my black blazer. All in my size, which brings me to the other point I alluded to.

I recently shed a little unwanted fat. Now, I can find my size on the racks in most stores. It’s not the size I want to be, but it’s gratifying. If the old fart knew how happy that makes me, perhaps he would’ve minded his own business.

Felicity, making up my mind

According to Webster’s, here are some of the definitions of felicity,

1 The quality or state of being happy; great happiness.

2 Something that causes happiness.

3 A pleasing manner or quality especially in art or language.

These paraphrased meanings describe my ideal state of being. After all, who wouldn’t want to be happy? After a lifetime of dwelling in the closet of denial, I am approaching the state of nirvana called femininity. Finally becoming the woman I always wanted to be, is a goal I never thought I’d reach.

Soon, the stars will align, and I’ll wake in the recovery room, feeling like a truck ran over my crotch. I will grin in my perfect state of felicity. No, I haven’t seen a therapist yet, but I finally made up my mind. I’m working toward that elusive state I should’ve reached years ago.

Do you remember when I debated a new name? Back in January, I posted a blog talking about my initials and how I hated being called Francine. As a young cross dresser, I went by Christine, Christy for short, but I grew up and turned my male initials backward. I became Francine Nichole Keller. As I mentioned in January, I’d never heard anyone call me that.

After my self-identification as transgender, somebody called me Francine over the phone, and I hated the sound. So, In January, I investigated other names. For a while, I thought I would switch the initials back and go by Kaye with the same last name I was born with, but it didn’t seem to work. When I read the above, definition, Felicity struck a familiar chord.

Felicity works with my pen name as a writer, so I will be changing to Felicity. (I love that name.) I know it will be more difficult to change my male name to Felicity, but I will live the life my name describes. I will pay it forward and help others find happiness in their circumstances.

Beyond the legal name change, there are myriad other things that have to be changed. Things like Facebook, e-mail and other correspondence. It’s going to be a lot of work. Maybe I’ll wait until I wake in that hospital room. I need to get a make-over to go with my new name.

Love Felicity.

Ain’t no Masculinity in Me

Some days I want be a woman so bad I can taste it. The all-consuming desire drives me to plan the conversations I will have in coming out. I shoulder my courage, shut down my ego, and relinquish my pride. On the way, I consider the implications. Love of those I would shatter comes into the mix and I turn around, seeking a better time.

Maybe I will tell them after the big event we have planned. I tell myself, you will be happier after . . . but will I? Do I have the right to destroy a life we built together? Are my selfish desires the deciding factor?

In the COGIATI, there is a question that I’ve been thinking about lately. It asks, A doctor offers you a painless, absolutely effective means to be completely masculine. All feminine desires and traits would be eliminated, and you would be happy and content to be a man. You would never need to dress, and you would never want to be feminine in any way again. You are assured that after the treatment you would be completely content. Would you take the treatment?

Without thinking, I immediately answer, hell no! How many of us have climbed back into the closet over the years, and purged our lives of femininity? Then we succumbed to our inner desires, and started the whole cycle again. Weren’t we trying to accomplish the results of the hypothetical question? I like being feminine. I want to be a woman. I finally know who I am. Would I give that up? NO, but I wonder . . .

Witch brings us to the question of my genitalia. Would I still have these desires if I were born with functioning, more masculine parts? If I could’ve had the sex life other men have, would I be different? I don’t know—I was born this way. I am sure however, I would’ve had a more rewarding sex life, had I been born with a vagina instead of what I got.

I now, stand at the crossroads. I must come out to move on. So much of my life was wasted filling a role. Trying to be what I’m not. Confession might be good for the soul, but it will ruin lives. Things will never be the same. I am living in my cocoon, getting ready to emerge. I will be the butterfly I always wanted to be.

What is Odd Anyway?

I recently commented on another person’s blog. She had mentioned that perhaps people were getting used to us. They no longer looked at transgender folks as an oddity. She said, I don’t know if people are changing and becoming acclimated to folks like us, or if my own perceptions have changed. I agreed with that assessment and said, I think you're right about society. They are more accepting or less afraid.

Right after I wrote my comment, I went out for the evening. The looks I received and the way I was  
treated shocked me. Okay, so it was a small Utah town, and I wasn’t entirely enfemme, but I thought diversity is what makes us human.
Perhaps it was a little early in the year for my denim Capri’s, pink ankle socks and deck shoes, but I’ve worn my pink camp shirt many times before. Add my sundry unmentionables, (but they couldn’t see those). Then put a lack of makeup, or wig, into the bowl. The results of the mixture . . . I looked different.

While waiting to be seated in the restaurant, I became the subject of

conversations at many tables. People, apparently, couldn’t take their eyes off me. I felt like a fever blister full of puss.

After eating and being gawked at, I went to a convenience store for chewing gum and was looked over by a boy. (Well, at my age, they’re all boys). He noticed the shirt and I watched his eyes go down to my feet, and my shoes must've clinched it. He shook his head. I was pegged as an oddball.

These days I don't really care about other opinions. I have a hard enough time with my own criticism, but the censure of those people surprised me. It took years to be able to buy my own clothes. Now I don’t hesitate to admire pretty things and check for my size. I wear my handmade TGLB bracelet with pride, and I go pretty much anywhere.

There was a time when the ridicule would’ve shut me down and driven me back into the closet, but I’m too old for that. Still, I need some new hair, teeth, FFS, and I need to drop four dress sizes. I do, however, dress my age and weight. After all, I don’t stuff myself into clothes made for a runway model. I don’t wear sexy clothes. I’m middle aged and I dress that way. I don’t want to look odd.