Sorta Funny People

Did you happen to see that movie Funny People? I caught it last night over at my friends' place after Thanksgiving dinner. I knew that it dealt with Adam Sandler's character being diagnosed with cancer, and that he worked as a comedian. Knowing only those two details left me in the dark about whether it was going to be funny, or a complete bummer. Needless to say, it wasn't that funny, but it kind of struck an unexpected chord with me.

The short of it is: Adam Sandler's character was told that he is dying, and he tries to reconnect with the love of his life, who's since moved on... She had gotten married and had two kids with her husband, played by Eric Bana.

I didn't really care about any of the plot lines, but I started to think. Am I gonna be that guy? Am I going to hit my 40s, and be filled with regret? Will I resent the fact that I didn't properly fight for the one who had my heart?

For a movie that didn't really have much to say, it sure made me think. God, I don't want to be that guy.

Thanks-taking

(How amazing is this image? Man alive, it's like a Christmas miracle, but at Thanksgiving, and not really Godly. But otherwise...)

Today is Thanksgiving, (and also my friend Jason's birthday). There is so much talk giving thanks for all of the wonderful things in our lives, but to me, it seems more like 'thanks-taking.'
Taking in all of the gratitude we show this one day out of the year. (Really, just one stinkin' day? Yes... Just one little day.)

If you are reading this blog, then I probably know you in some capacity. I want to thank you for taking the time to see what stoopid antics I'm chattering about now. It means a lot to see how many people have stopped in since I started this project in mid-September. I have gotten so much feedback, and so many offline comments of reaction to what certain entries made the readership think. Writing in this sphere is a very strange endeavor, as I don't totally have a clue to who may see what I am putting out there in the world. I am writing for the sake of writing, which can sometimes be insanely self-indulgent, and at worst, just plain drivel. Thanks for sticking with me, and for those of you who have shared your thoughts with me. It's nice to know that there are folks out there, still dropping by.

So, in the spirit of this holiday, I will spew my own list of gratitude:

I am thankful for the opportunity to live this life as honestly, genuinely, and openly as I can. I am so ridiculously grateful that I have the chance to explore all of my crazy ideas, be it transitioning, writing this silly blog, walking a million dogs, or crushing out on some cute girl ~ it's been a great life!

Thank you to all of my friends and family that have stuck by in the dark corners when things got rough, and most of all ~ thanks for sticking by me in all the ways you do, as we create the fun times together.

This has been the best year of my life yet, and I am the happiest I've ever been. I am looking forward to whatever antics we will get into in this near future.

Many thanks, and have the happiest of Thanksgivings! (And remember to "dress" yer bird like this next year!!!)

Risk

I just had an amazing heart to heart with my best friend in the world. We both have had a rough couple of years, and are finally finding ourselves not only back on track, but the best we've ever been. E v e r. I think a huge reason why I am doing so well is the fact that I have this best friend. And that I take my 'job' of being her best friend very seriously.

Usually, I'm the type of person that would befriend someone I was interested in, and then we'd typically date after that friendship blossomed. Whenever a relationship would end, I'd be crushed, as I'd not only be losing a lover, but my best friend. (God, isn't that from some cheesy song? groan~~~) But I think the requirements of being someone's best friend have suited me well, and made me grow up in a way that I hadn't expected.

There is a certain responsibility in taking that role. You are on call 24/7, and have to use your negotiating skills to sometimes talk them down off whatever metaphorical ledge they have found themselves. I am very lucky to have the best friend I have. She is an expert at talking me down by relating her own applicable experiences to my struggles to help me see that I am not alone. I've never felt like anyone truly had my back before this, and it's kind of incredible. I mean ~ we've been friends for years now, so it's not a recent epiphany... Maybe it's this whole "being thankful" thing (Thanksgiving-wise) that's got me all choked up. Whatev.

Back to the convo: My best friend and I were talking about the necessity of risk. (Note: *Not* the board game.) We were sharing our experiences of coming out alright after some pretty traumatizing years of our lives. Beyond the usual mishaps of trying to love someone and it not always going as smoothly as we would hope, we had both seen some shit. Things that forever changed us. Even as catastrophic as some of these happenings felt at the time – things that pushed us so far beyond our abilities to cope and manage – we see now just how resilient we've become having been tested in those various ways.

For me, I know that nothing will ever be able to shake me up as much as they had back then. I feel so grounded, so rooted now. I know that even if something hurts, I will be able to surmount any obstacle, and learn more about myself in the process. And watching her become this totally self assured, self preserving woman. It's been very inspiring.

But I think we both needed to lose ourselves to find ourselves. We needed to shed the veneers that no longer suited the people that we were becoming, but just didn't know it yet. It's an incredibly vulnerable process, to sort of molt into this new version of one's self. Talk about feeling naked... (I mean, we were talking about that, right?!?)

When we tried to analyze just what it was that changed for the two of us, we both began to see it take shape. There were elements or qualities within us that just weren't working for us anymore. We didn't change in order to have this person or that person love us. But we changed aspects of ourselves in order to end the sabotaging patterns that may have contributed to our past loves failing. As Jen says: "If you're our age, and things still aren't working – it's probably your fault!" And I know what she means!

If I kept finding all of my relationships turned out the same way – even if it was possible to blame everyone else for all of the problems (which of course it wasn't), I'M still the one seeking out people to fulfill that fucked up role. It's not that cut and dry, I know, but I completely agree with her point.

It wasn't until I was ready to really see myself as I am, faults and all, that I could finally do the required work to curb some of those bad habits. But it involved risks. Huge risks. I had to try new things out in order to see what might work more effectively. Frankly, that's terrifying.

When you already feel like a fuck up, the last thing you want to do is try new things when you admittedly don't have the slightest clue. It's horrifying to want to be the best, to see so blatantly that you're not, when you don't have the easy bake oven version of a solution. Thinking is hard. It hurts my brain. Sometimes I just don't like doing it. But there is no relief. Problems still exist, whether we allow ourselves to acknowledge them or not.

In order to potentially find better answers, I had to take risks that were terribly intimidating at first. I felt so raw and unsure of everything, my ego already so bruised. Only through repeatedly putting myself in situations where I had to assert a sense of courage and fortitude could I begin to see my own capabilities. In the beginning, I didn't even believe that I had any courage or fortitude in me. Maybe it was a "fake it, til you make it" kind of deal.

Unknowingly, we can get so scared of the depth and complexity of living, that we sometimes omit the element of risk. When this happens, we never allow ourselves to truly grow and expand beyond our teeny circles of routines and rote memory. To me, that seems dangerous. To me, that was dangerous.

It makes me think of all of those wonky, old fogey clichés, like "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger." Or some other witticism that Kanye West has repurposed. (That dude was shot like 37 times, so I guess he can claim that sentiment as his own. He earned it. But I digress...) There is something to those kind of clichés, though. And to every fucking self help book that's ever existed. How does one summarize the very source of that kind of 'entry level enlightenment' without sounding like a complete douche?

There is this weird part of me that wants to ask you, beg you, to think of one thing that terrifies you. I want to ask you to deduce what kind of calculated risk you can take to immerse yourself in that fear, and emerge the victor. (Victor, Victoria?) I want you to see yourself as brave, courageous, able... And I want that to slowly become a process that gets ingrained in our daily lives. To challenge ourselves everyday to choose bigger and bigger risks (Sensible ones, of course! Not like juggling 4 chainsaws, or charging the bulls at Pamplona if you have a bum knee.)

I think what made my risks successful was that I didn't really see failure as an option, but rather saw everything as an opportunity to learn more about myself. Even if something felt like a set back in the immediate state, I could remember that it's not about quick fixes, and even quicker escapes if things go awry. It was about longitudinal studies of what would really work. Things that didn't work were simply crossed off my list, and seen as a necessary ingredient to narrow down my scope. I didn't have to beat myself up with each misstep. There was something so invigorating and liberating about that kind of approach. I often believe that we are most inventive when we don't 'over-think' things.

These new approaches to my life weren't intended to land me dates, but rather to be a version of myself that would make me proud to share with others worthy of my affection. One that would help me forgive myself for past mistakes, and chalk it up to youthful folly. I didn't want to change to secure a specific person's love for me, but now that I've become someone that I believe is worth dating, so many more people seem interested and available to me. Ironic...

And I see that only through exploring the multitude can we find the one.

I feel so lucky to live in a time where my gender transition was possible. But more than that – I feel so lucky to understand how malleable we are as human animals, because of my transition. To know if we can change something that huge, and intrinsically ingrained in our psyches like gender, that nearly everything else should feel like a piece of cake.

So, I ask of you: What risks do you want to take? What do you wish you could transition into in your own life?

Frydaddy

My friend Danni invited me over to her place for Thanksgiving dinner. It should be fun, and will definitely be entertaining! (For those you you who don't know Danni, think a younger Karen Walker from Will & Grace.)

Apparently she ordered a deep fried turkey, and will be ordering a bunch of sides, and desserts as well. Holidays made simple. It's kind of nice, as there is no pressure. I used to spend Thanksgiving with my family, where my Mom literally spends four days baking up a storm, and then spends two days prepping all the food for celebratory meal. Since my Polish Grandmother has been in a nursing home, we've kind of changed our game plan. My brother and his wife are staying out in Portland, OR, and my cousin who just got married, and will be spending the holiday in Virginia. This excused me from being the only 'kid' in attendance, so I'm laying low in DC and hanging out with friends.

Not to sound like a curmudgeon or grouch, but I really don't care much about holidays anymore. When I was a kid, they were so precious and full of such excitement. But as I grew older, and my family became somewhat spread out geographically, it just didn't have the same resonance. And usually my parents get on each others' nerves, which can feel a bit overwhelming at times.

It will be perfect to just have a laid back Thanksgiving where I can drink til my heart's content, and then stumble home, only a few blocks away, to let my dog out, and instantly pass out in my cozy bed. That is what I am thankful for this year. (Not sure about that deep fried turkey. I'm a yankee at heart, and this whole deep frying phenomenon in the south scares me a bit. My goal is to eat enough healthy sides to fill up, and maybe bypass the deep fried bird and endless amounts of pies that will be staring me down. Fingers crossed!)

Somekind of Wonderful

The other day I had a quick flash of a memory of driving through my small Vermont college town, and noticing how many homes seemed to be surrounded by all of this debris. Old broken down cars, over-sized kids' toys no longer in daily circulation, things that looked like they were meant to be thrown away, but somehow escaped mid route to the garbage can. It really struck me, as I wondered what these littered items represented psychologically, and how this trash was really another man's treasure.

I became fixated on this idea of organizing the clutter in our lives, and trying to understand the deeper meanings of what we keep around us. I don't see it directly related to class, as I have known many millionaires that are horribly disorganized, yet they have the resources to hire people to help tidy up. Some of those 'staffers' have been house keepers, personal assistants, organizing specialists, and the like. But the predisposition to 'monkey up' our lives with junk can be present in any of us.
This idea probably came back to me now, as I have been trying to simplify my life considerably. I had a Latin teacher in high school that used to say: "What you own owns you." And I get it now, what he meant. Now that I am older, I am finding myself more and more responsible for every element of my life. If something breaks, I need to find a way to get it resolved. I can't wait for someone else to jump in, or dust under the rug like a guilt-ridden child.

I didn't realize that I have applied this to dating as well. Like that scene from Somekind of Wonderful where Amanda Jones tells Keith's character: "I'd rather be with someone for the wrong reasons then alone for the right." He says: "I'd rather be right."



It's not that I have to be right, but I'd rather not have 'stuff' just for the sake of having stuff. Relationships included.

I want to be more intentional, to consciously seek out what might be a good fit for me. As my dear old friend from high school and I have been talking about "finding our people." Sure, I have been going on some fun dates with gorgeous, hilarious folks, but I kept asking myself if my trans status was going to be a big hurdle for them. I didn't know how to ask without putting us all on the spot.

Part of me thinks that my feeling unsure if it would be an issue was perhaps my answer. With other people I dated in the past, they let me know that they were all in, or areas that they still struggled with for their futures. Even though my trans existence might complicate things a bit, there were folks who were so psyched to be with me that we were able to surmount those immediate challenges. And I guess that is what I am hoping to find now. Not someone who will 'excuse' or overlook the fact that I am trans, but rather someone who will really understand the way it informs my life, and how it helped me become the person that I am now.

I'm hoping that's not too much to ask... (Secretly wishing it was 1987, and I could walk out to find Watts on my front step waiting for me, as she looks good wearing my future. Sigh~ )

Men at Work in Progress

I've really been reconnecting with a lot of my close friends as of late. It's been intense hearing about those who are now engaged, those of whom are purchasing their first homes together, those who are moving in with their partners for the first time, etc. It's made me reflect a great deal on this concept of progress.

What are the markers we use too chart or quantify our own progress – maturing into healthy, well adjusted, productive members of society? How do we know when we've 'arrived?' And how do we know when we are still bullshitting ourselves with smoke and mirrors?

It could be really easy to beat myself up, comparing myself to the countless friends that are hitched, co-habitating, have the perfect job, the gorgeous house they now own, and so on... But the reality is – I don't need to compare myself to anyone else anymore. I don't need to launch my own pity party because I am single again, or because I rent instead of own, or because I'm not on some fast track corporate escalator bringing me straight to the top.

The truth is, I've been that person who feels so insecure about my own place in the world, that I begin to judge everyone else. It felt like shit, only solidifying how inferior I felt. I wondered why they got the job in film that I wanted, or how they landed the hott girl I found intriguing... It never ended. And then something changed: I fell in love, moved in with the woman I wanted to marry, we rented a huge gorgeous house together, got a dog, worked together professionally, collaborated on art together, which was shown collectively, traveled the world side by side. I thought I had it all, but I was miserable. My heart was broken time and time again. And I realized that despite 'having it all,' I felt farther away from true contentment and happiness than when I was alone. Ironic.

There was something that was askew in the little venn diagram of my life. Until I really looked at it candidly, and courageously, my life was still going to feel like shit. Two elements in my life stood out as pretty significant problems:

1. I wasn't living genuinely. I was sure I didn't feel like a woman despite my female body, but I was terrified of immersing myself in any concrete changes that would be irreversible (gender wise) to see if anything else would feel like a better fit. At least knowing that something was wrong was easier to stomach than the potential hazards of the all too terrifying unknown. So, I spent decades in paralyzed limbo, fearing the seemingly infinite what-ifs, and hating the reality of my life – all of which meant that I had to do the work to resolve that broken sense of self, between my (female) body, and my internalized sense that I was *meant* to be masculine.

2. I was in a relationship that was toxic. I fell in love with an incredible human being who happened to be very damaged, and horrifically destructive. Instantly, all of the years I invested in trying to heal from my traumatic childhood went out the window, and suddenly, I was unwittingly committing to my own emotional unraveling. I truly loved this woman, but realized that it wasn't my job to fix her, and I wasn't doing a very good job of keeping myself safe while being with her.

Between these two paths intersecting, I lost myself completely. A wise woman once told me: "Sometimes a break down in necessary for a break through." Well, I definitely broke down, and feel so incredibly lucky to say that I did the requisite work to transform most of that pain and insight into the wisdom to transcend beyond the limits of my own capabilities and tolerances.

I had to step the fuck up to face all that scared me the most, which was no small task. And I can't help but assume that this is the informal foundation for at least 90% of things like substance abuse issues, eating disorders, sex addictions, chronic anger mis-management issues, and the whole lot of them. We simply don't want to really have to look at the elements that inflict the most debilitating, excruciating pain and confusion in our lives. So, often we just don't. We in turn find other avenues to distract us from that pain (addictions), or we find other outlets to pretend that we are healing from that one mortal wound. ("If I just get this one job, if I just find someone to date, if I could just find someone to publish my novel –– THEN my life will be okay. THEN I'll be content.")

The truth is we almost always look for outside 'fixes' for internal problems. We need the pat on the back, the partner who tells us incessantly that they love us, or that we're beautiful, our parents or bosses to tell us we're good enough. But even when we get those external gestures, they rarely get absorbed in the way we hoped they would. Even with those complements and remarks of adoration, we are often no closer to actually believing that we are worthy, or make it any easier to tell ourselves all that we wish we were hearing from those on whom we rely.

I can quantify it. I really can. I can tell you the exact day that I decided to change my life. I can tell you the moment – where I was when I knew that I couldn't keep running from the pain, and when I finally accepted that it was time to face those monsters in my closets. I stood up to my girlfriend and told her that I was no longer going to enable her abusive tactics anymore, and that if she wanted to be in my life, it would have to be from a stance of respect, and mutual dignity. And I decided that I wasn't going to keep myself frozen in limbo about my gender confusion. I granted myself permission to experiment, and push myself far beyond my comfort levels to simply see who I could become.

When I talk about my transition, I make it clear that gender was just the metaphor, and that the real change was in believing that I am worthy of this life of opportunity. Slowly, I began to awaken to the reality that I treat others better than I treat myself. And I expect others to treat themselves better than they treat me. I unconsciously sought out selfish people that could utilize my generosity, and simultaneously take me for granted. If I had a history of giving myself away, then the new history that I was creating as I went had to be about self-preservation. My 'new' life required all of my attention, and diligent focus. It wasn't about wearing a blue shirt as opposed to a pink shirt to become this new version of me. And it wasn't about applying down at the city courthouse for some random new name. Every single element of my life was torn down and rebuilt from the rubble.

It's been three years, and only now I am catching my stride, and expanding my center of focus. Some people go to grad school, while others work their way up the corporate ladder to learn what they think they need to know to have a better life, in whatever form that takes. I'm not dissing those approaches, but feel sad for those of whom I know that have spent years down those paths to find themselves no closer to happiness, contentment, or knowing what they 'should do' with their lives.

Instead of panicking because I have been managing the same small businesses for several years, I see that I have consciously chosen these options because it grants me time to write for several hours everyday, I enjoy the type of work I do, and the people with whom I work, and I am really good at small business management. I want to take myself more seriously as a writer, but this job helps me get there. I love what I do, and I love all that it allows me to do. I know that I am good at it, regardless of whether or not I have some pat on the back, or some 'Employee of the Month' plaque to hang on my wall. (as if...)

And rather than assuming that my being single means I am unlovable, I can finally rest assured that I'm the most content and at peace with myself that I've ever been in my life. All of my hard work has lead me to not only feel, but *be* more resolved, and rooted. It's been amazing.

I turn 34 next week, and I finally feel like I am worthy of all of the happiness and self-acceptance that had always escaped me. This was the life that I was meant to earn. But like all of the most valuable things in life – there were no shortcuts, or cliff notes for this invaluable experiential knowledge. I had to break down to break through. And from here, I look to my future from a seat of hope and curiosity. Even if I get kicked down again, I can trust myself to evolve, and grow into an even more resilient and able person, adding more insights and revelations to the heap.

It feels good to know in these last days of my early thirties that I am exactly where I need to be. And to feel surprisingly proud of all of my progress and accomplishments. Okay, so maybe I don't have some fancy diplomas on my wall, or 'World's Best' -whatever- trophies, but I do have my surly self-deprecating wit, and cubby full of verve that I get to rock this new party. (But a "World's Best Whatever" trophy would be kind of amazing...)

Now back to you: What if you could have the life for which you've always hoped? What hard work would you be willing to do to achieve it? What monsters in your closet would you be willing to face if it meant you could be free to find contentment?

Inspir-a-tor

An artist friend of mine and I were talking the other day about the subject of inspiration. Namely, we were talking about how many people seem to be lacking in this department. Huh... I haven't thought about it in a long time.

When I was a teenager I was classically trained as a metalsmith, including jewelry techniques such as stone setting, casting, and enameling. At fifteen, I was determined to become a world famous artist by my mid twenties, and by sixteen, I won a national art award honoring me as one of the top 15 young metalsmiths in the country. Most people would have seen that as an affirmation that they were on the right track, but instead, I got disenchanted with "art for the sake of pleasing others," and after a few more jaded years, basically quit altogether.

I don't think about it much, even though almost all of my friends are artists, in some form or another. There are times that I have an idea for a project, or a piece I'd like to produce. Sometimes these are installations, sculptures, or other times, they are smaller pieces that might fall under the category of craft, rather than fine art. And I think that was a great deal of my struggle all along.

Did I want to create work that made people think? Or did I want to create 'pretty pieces' to sit on a shelf in someone's china cabinet? I guess it depended on each project, and my intentions for that piece to come to fruition. But when I step back and look at it on the whole, I see that even though I may have stepped out of the visual art/artisan craft arena, I still create – and there are times that I am still ignited by a driving source of inspiration.

And that's what I seek out in other people: the fire, the passion. I don't believe that all passionate people are artists (at least not in the most literal sense), and I certainly don't believe that all artists are passionate (um, hello, Thomas Kinkade!). I do, however, think that passion and fiery desire are incredible motivational tools to help us break from the monotony of coasting through mediocrity. No, not all passion can be sustained, but it doesn't need to be. It can be that launching pad, that catalyst for us to begin anew, and redefine ourselves in an exciting new direction.

I think my fire sort of went out for a while. The past few years after a bad break up from a far too intense relationship left me somewhat winded and exhausted. I have spent much of my time alone, tip toeing around the big issues, while I navigated through the smaller ones. Having had this conversation about passion reminded me to rekindle my own flame (yes, I am a big flamer now), and see what sparks may fly.

(My friend Melanie calculated my astrological chart several years ago, to find that like 7 of the planets in my chart fall on fire signs – mostly Sagittarius, which is also my sun sign. Hot damn! So, when I say fiery, I mean fiery!)

We all need a little time to heal, dust ourselves off, and reconvene. Now that I gotten that out of the way, I think I am finally ready to get back in the game, and see if I've still got game. (wah wah wah...)

I'm feeling inspired, and happy to find that a little thing like passion can be all the hope we need for a new chance at life. Let the games begin! Smell the moment! Er, wait~

Big Papa

No, I'm not expecting. And no, I didn't knock anyone up. One of the privileges about being sterile from the testosterone – no surprises... But it's also the really impossible part, at the same time.

Lately I've really been wondering how my life will pan out. I am fearing that I am too comfortable with my solo existence. (Neil Diamond's "Solitary Man" just became my new theme song, didn't it? Fuck.)

I was talking earlier today about how I'm in finally getting back into working out and eating much healthier again, and my good friend mentioned that she is, too, in order to get pregnant. Wow. Um, I wasn't expecting that conversation. It must be something in the air. Or in the stars. I've been thinking about babies a lot lately, and wondering if I'll ever be in relationship that has kids. Or in a relationship, at all, ever again. Period.

It's weird to think that a year and a half ago I reconnected with a long lost ex, who gave birth to a son after we broke up. She and I met up for a couple of summers in a row, and I got to hang out with her kid, and see how it felt to be in that kind of dynamic. It was kind of crazy because her son looked like the perfect split between the two of us, so when we went out, everyone just assumed that I was his dad, since he had a square jaw and green eyes like I do. He was also roughly my height, even though he was only three years old when I last saw him. Ya, not my kid.

Dating someone with kids made wonder how I'd be as a parent. So strange to suddenly step into this spontaneous and hypothetical role as a dad, or step-dad. This little being existed before I came back into the picture, so there wasn't much time to catch up. It was an interesting experience. I got really excited about the prospect of being a stay at home (step) dad, as I work from home anyway, managing several small businesses and writing throughout my day. My mind was flooded with day dreams of all of the possibilities. It was especially a bummer when geography seemed a bit too daunting (at 6,000 miles/6 times zones apart), and the potential romance fizzled.

She and I still keep in contact, and everything is fine between us, but it's tough to feel like I may have missed out on maybe the one chance I'll have to be a parent. Being a transguy, it feels a little more complicated to think about how that may work in the future.

Not to put the cart before the horse, or in this case, the stroller before the infant... But I hope that this wasn't my only shot at being a dad, or a step dad. As scary as many elements can be when contemplating parenthood, I guess I just want to know that it can still be an option, and that my decision to transition hasn't squelched that possibility.

Cuz, in the end, don't we all just want to know we have possibilities...?

Shirley, you must be joking...

I have to admit that I'm not a huge fan of musicals. Actually, I think they kind of suck. (I'm clearly not the swishy kind of queer boy, am I?) While I was trying to get caught up on some work around my house, I stumbled upon the musical movie version of Sweet Charity. The only reason why I even bothered to watch it was because I *heart* Shirley MacLaine, especially in the films of the 1960s. The Apartment is one of my all time favorite films. I even dated a woman that I subconsciously thought looked like her back in the early days. Funny. (Now Irma La Douce is on. Hubba Hubba.)



Back to Sweet Charity. Have you seen this flick? 'Hooker with a heart of gold' theme. We've all seen it played out a million times, right? I stepped in around the middle of the plot, where she seemingly wooed an uptight young man who soon announced his love for her – how he couldn't live without her, how she "cured" him of his fears and inspired him to live as he always dreamed he could. I kind of tuned out whenever some song or dance number would kick in... Well, except for the marching band scene, where young Shirley is dressed like a drum majorette, and does this amazing dance with her shoulders, circa Janet Jackson's "Control" video a la the late 80s. I fell in love all over again. (With Shirley, not Janet. No offense to her...)

Ms. MacLaine ran around the city crooning something to the effect of: "I found a boy who loves me." (Or something like that.) The clincher is – will she be able to tell him about her past? And if and when she does, how will he react? Ya, I can relate to that kind of tension. You think you really like someone and you get overtaken by the enthusiasm, the zeal. But there is a subtle undercurrent of worry, as you begin to hope that the euphoric tides won't change when your truth comes bubbling up to the surface.

Yep.

Irma La Douce is slightly different. Yes, it was the 'hooker with a heart of gold' theme again, but she was the -love interest- of the protagonist, not the main character herself. In this gem, it was Jack Lemmon's character that drove the plot twists. Of course, the humble everyman that he plays so well. And of course, I can relate to that guy. The dope who seems to have the worst luck, but always comes out alright in the end.

There is a scene in this film where Irma invites "Lester" (played by Jack) up to her apartment to spend the night with her after he beat up her pimp for mistreating Irma. He sheepishly turned away as she began to undress, and even covered her windows with newspaper to prevent others from sneaking a peek. His shyness got in the way, as he uncomfortably took respite in a wooden chair stationed next to the bed where Irma was reclining. Ya, I'm totally that guy. That scene felt so familiar, like it was plucked from my very own life. Laughing at myself for being such a sappy fool.

Last year, a friend of mine that I had known for years came to visit for an event. A bunch of us hung out into the wee hours of the night, and rather than have my friend drive out 45 minutes to her family's place, I offered that she could crash with me at a huge, gorgeous house where I was watching some pets for a long weekend. I spoke up, explaining that I'd be staying in a different room to give her some privacy, and then showed this gal her diggs. She coyly said not to be silly, that I could stay with her in the guest bedroom. Like that idiot "Lester," I let my shyness get in the way.

She and I stayed up for hours, chatting away nervously (at least on my end) chastely snuggling next to one another. In retrospect, I think she was flirting up a storm, but I was so afraid to overstep any boundaries that I deflected what may have been advances on her part. By the time I finally summoned the gumption to make a move, she had just fallen asleep. It felt like a debilitating sign that it wasn't meant to be – that I would forever miss the opportunity to get to know her better.

I wish I could say that I learned my lesson that night, but maybe once a shy dope, always a shy dope. I think there is a fine line between trying to be a gentleman, and just plain being an idiot. Flip a coin. If this was some Shirley MacLaine / Jack Lemmon feature, all of the calamity would erupt into some comical, yet syrupy happy ending. (No pun intended with all of the talk about hookers...)

God, I wish Billy Wilder could be the director of my life... Maybe then I could have a chance.

Mr. Leather

Heh. You can already tell that this post is gonna be a doozey.

A friend of mine moved back to the area yesterday, and wanted to hang out today to distract her from all the anxiety of the unknown. She feels stressed being unsure how her life will turn out while she is in this fair city. Everything in her life is in flux – her job situation, her financial stability, her relationship, her social networks, all of it.

I took her out to dinner so we could hash out all of her concerns and fears, and hopefully make her feel better. Egh. Not so much. It was fine, but some of the anxiety still hung around.

Since she was already feeling like shit, she asked if we could go see the new film "Precious." Fuck. Kick us when we're down, why don't you! I curtailed that kind of self-induced depressive slump, and sought out other suggestions. I remembered seeing an intriguing ad in the Metro Weekly queer magazine that could be the perfect fit.

A "Mr. DC Eagle Leather Competition" at the local gay leather bar downtown. Uh-mazing! Despite her starting to fade, and want to sit around watching depressing movies all night, we motivated and drove down just in time for the second half of the competition.

For those of you who don't know, I've always had a weird carnal attraction for big muscle bound dudes. When I was a toddler, my family would go to the beach, and if a massive body builder gay with a hairy chest and tiny Speedo walked by, I was most likely trailing after him. (Yes – my life could have been SOOOO different. I guess none of us assumed I'd end up here with that kind of foreshadowing.)

I must admit that I had never been inside a leather bar before. I had been invited, but had often been too shy, and nervous to step foot inside, feeling like too much of a pansy or dandy to make past the bouncer checking IDs. But it was super fun! Even though my friend isn't particularly squeamish, I felt an odd sense of wanting to protect her from any sights that she might not be used to... It was kind of hilarious.

It was good to have a wingman, as I still would have been too shy to go on my own. She claimed that I was getting checked out left and right, but I was sort of oblivious. We stayed a little past the crowning of the new Mr. DC Eagle, and scanned the crowd. A pretty inviting group. She swears she'll go back with me another time when she's not so tired... Nice. It ended up being the perfect night. Way better than had we sat around watching mopey chick flicks. Fuck that shit!

It's good to have a wingman. Any other takers?

Day of Remembrance

(This is my favorite picture of Harvey Milk. He looks so irrepressibly content. I hope to look like that again someday...)

I forgot that today is the Transgender Day of Remembrance, honoring our trans-sister and brothers who have passed. While I was flipping through Metro Weekly, a GLBTQI publication in the DC metro area, I saw a full page ad taken out by the Whitman Walker Clinic marking this annual remembrance. It struck me, as not only did I forget about the date of this event, but I also forgot I posed for some photos that later became their ad campaign. In short: I was looking at a photo of myself, with a tag line that read, "You must be the change you wish to see in the world."

How humbling is that?

Yes. I must be the change I wish to see in the world.

Coincidentally, I am home watching the film "Milk," while waiting for a friend to come over. I remember seeing this film earlier in the year when it came out in theaters. It was so moving, as I have seen other documentaries on Harvey Milk, and knew his story quite well. Hearing him say that he didn't think he was going to make it to 50, and that on his 40th birthday that he felt as though he hadn't done a single thing of which he was proud. Suddenly I feel like I can relate. It makes me look back and wonder if I have done anything of worth, of value in this society.

Will my existence have changed anything? Will my life have positively influenced the world in any significant way? If not, how can make that come to fruition?

I think about the challenges that I've experienced in my life, and the times where my safety was directly threatened because of my gender or sexuality, and I remember thinking: "No, not yet. I can't die like this – I'm not done yet. I haven't caught my stride, there is still more for me to do."

...A few years ago, on my birthday, and also on the day of an art opening where some of my work was being displayed, I fucked up and took the metro forgetting that the train line was going to split and go in vastly different directions. Needless to say, I ended up in a pretty rough part of town, and it was clear to passers by that I was lost. I was instantly surrounded by a group of young men who began to aggressively antagonize me, and threaten me physically, as they chastised me for being so androgynous. I had started T several months earlier, which left me straggling in between stereotypical gender norms.

When I entered the train to take me back, my car was almost completely empty, and I feared that I wouldn't survive their attack. They continued to follow me after I got off the train, and I could over hear them describe what I was wearing as I ducked out of sight, hiding behind tourists, and immediately changing my appearance by taking off my coat and hat, to try to sneak away. I understood all too well in that moment that I was literally running for my life.

I feel very fortunate to have escaped, and my heart breaks for all of those who were not so lucky. Those of whom were caught by their captors or by their own internal demons, and whose lives were extinguished far too soon.

Harvey Milk's 'character' (meaning, I don't know if was an actual quote or not) spoke at the end of the film about his decision to run for office, and his choice to live as an 'out' gay man, that these choices were about the movement for queer rights. He said it wasn't about the ego, or the individual, but about the "us'es" of the world. That we "gotta give them hope." And I know exactly what he means.

My decision to live as an out transguy isn't about being a tranny poster boy, as flattering as that is... But it's about putting a face on an issue that many people might not know about otherwise. People like my suburban New England family, or the thousands of work-related clients I've known over the years of my transition, or the random people that I've met here or there. To me, it's not about an opportunity to speak up about this issue or that one... For me, it feels more like my responsibility, my duty, to represent this still seemingly invisible demographic.

We tend to associate trans people with cheese ball caricatures of from bad tv. These two dimensional characters that are all portrayed in the same dehumanizing way. I hope to be a part of the movement adding more dimensions, more realism and more humanity to what people see as transgender.

It's nice to pass as a guy, as I never saw myself as a woman, and felt stuck in my female body. It even feels much safer in many ways, since being misread as a butch lesbian, or mysterious androgynous person before I transitioned seemed to push too many cultural buttons. Those trigger reactions often morphed into personal attacks against me. And as much as I don't want to make myself a target, I refuse to step out of one closet to simply step into a different one. I don't want to hide my truth, the reality of my identity just because I can pass as a middle class white man now. I have always felt like I was an "other," an outsider, an alien. I don't want to hide away ever again. I need to be brave, commanding, and open.

My hope is that my candor and transparency can make my experiences accessible to those who aren't trans themselves. If we can seek out the humanity in each others' experiences, then we really aren't so far apart. It can no longer be us versus them, but just a series of us'es, like Milk had said. I am left hoping that this modest little life of mine can transcend its potential pedestrian antics, and really be one of value, or worth... I want to create a legacy. I want my life to be important, not from the center of an ego, but from the trenches of humankind.

An ex of mine once said: "You have a saturated, yet insatiable curiosity... Find your worth."

Lord knows, I'm trying...

Best Man

I'm not actually thinking of the wedding wingman for the groom-to-be... I'm thinking more along the lines of wanting to be a better man. ("30 Days to a Better Man" temporarily put on hold here... Hmmmmfph!) But I have been ruminating in this topic of love inspiring us to be the best possible version of ourselves. I obsessively read Plato's Symposium for years while in college, featuring one of the humankind's best dialogues on the subject of love. For years, I toted around a weathered, musty paperback translation of the work.

Mostly, we want to be better ourselves in order to woo our beloveds, but also in part, we want to be good enough simply for our own sake of pride, with maybe even with a dash of vanity thrown in for good measure.

So – how do we know if we are good enough? What qualifications do we have to suggest that we are good at any one facet of our lives? How do we quantify the goodness, if say, we are great at being a salesman, but totally suck as being a husband? Does being good at something transcend beyond the areas that are still in need of some refining? Or does being bad at one or more facets trump the goodness, and pull our benevolence card?

I have no fucking clue! But... I do know that I have been horrible in relationships, where I've been selfish, narcissistic, impatient, aggressive, bullheaded. The whole nine. But other than that (ha!), I consider myself a pretty good person; descent, generous, compassionate, gregarious even. So, do the not so great parts cancel out the other elements that fill me with a sense of pride and self-acceptance? In my heart ~ yes, they have canceled out the good.

While I was growing up, I was pretty much a fuck up. I was in honors classes, played music, was artistic and athletic, was relatively well-liked, but always on the verge of breaking down. I was *so close* to having it all, but it was all so fragile and crushable every time I started to succumb to the intense stress. (Which I might add was stress that I put on my own shoulders...)

I wanted to be the best, not just passable, not 'good enough,' but the best, at nearly everything I tried. Maybe I was lucky because certain things came somewhat easily to me. But the things that didn't felt like public crucifixions. Namely: my ability to manage my own life.

Upon reflection, I think I am good at inventing new systems, figuring out new approaches and even implementing them. Here's the kicker: I suck at maintenance. Relationships are all about maintenance. I can be great at picking out the perfect birthday presents, or reserving the ideal romantic getaway – but knowing how to be in the trenches day after day escaped me. The macro versus the micro. I'm not great with ongoing details. They kind of trip me up. The back and forth, the massaging of egos when toes have been stepped on... This is usually the part where I would spin out of control. It was no fun to be with me at these moments, and certainly no fun being me at these moments, either. The bruises to my pride were intolerable, where I lost a lot of respect for myself knowing that I acted in disgraceful ways. That's the worst: knowing I disappointed someone. Ooof!

When I look back, I see a lot of congruence from one relationship to the next in my romantic history. Many times that I did something, or said something I would later regret. Yet that alone didn't seem to be enough of deterrent to derail that course to Crazytown, USA, the next time around. I'd fuck up again and again. Okay, to be honest, a sliver of me kind of relished being the bad boy, the fuck up, with the huffy artistic temperament, but come on! That only goes so far. Then you're just a dick.

But around this time last year, something changed, and I no longer wanted to be complicit in my crash course of love. I wanted to be a better man. Not just okay, not good enough, but the best. And not even just the best possible version of myself, but I wanted to be the best possible partner available. Unfortunately, I forgot that self-improvement can sometimes be a slow process. It's great if you have an idea of the few things on your to do list that may transform you into some super human mystic, but for the rest of us, it requires a lot of trial and error. Emphasis on that latter part. When I had as much practice as I did at the error end of the spectrum, I was not prepared to embark on more of it.

I never thought I'd say this but: I'm glad that I got dumped. This last relationship I had inspired me to stop the cycles that clearly weren't working for me, and to implement newer skills that may change the tides. The sad part is that it was a matter of timing. Namely: bad timing, that this relationship was the impetus for change, but that I hadn't evolved fast enough to salvage it. I am learning now that it wasn't meant to be – back then. I wasn't ready. I wasn't even aware of all of the things that I needed to polish within myself. That relationship ending wasn't a failure, but a catalyst to step up and take responsibility for my life. My old excuses and defunct auto-pilot clearly wouldn't suffice any more.

No, it's not a joy to be single, but I'd rather be working on this shit alone, than being half assed in a relationship that deserved better. I needed to get dumped to see what I had to change. Maybe I sound too jaded here sometimes, as I go off on tangents about being a loner, and that kind of stuff... But the reality is: I'm pretty content. I am happy to see that maybe the best way to quantify how much I cared about someone was how much I wanted to work on myself. Like they inspired me to be the best possible version of myself, for both of our sakes'. It was a pretty incredible feeling, even though we aren't together anymore. And one that 'stuck' even after her departure. I want to be better, even the best – to be worthy – just because... Not to 'trick' someone into loving me, but to become the kind of person who would genuinely earn that affection and allegiance.

I think that is love.

And I think it was all worth it. It's nice to feel proud of myself again, knowing how hard I've worked to figure stuff out, and heal from the wounds I didn't know were still lingering.

I am a better man because of it. Who knew getting dumped would be the best thing that's ever happened to me? (Well, maybe not the best thing. My friend Caroline gave me a personalized autographed photo of Betty White. That was pretty great... But you know what I mean.)

Charts and Graphs

So, I was thinking more about all of this talk about hormones and such. Pre-pubescent boys are known for their puppy love tactics in the realm of crush-ville, and middle aged men seek out companionship when their sex drive wanes, and their wives no longer wow them. (Is any of that even true?) I'm smack dab in the middle, with this self-induced second puberty. This time around I'm flooding my system with testosterone, and opening those floodgates to all that comes with it. Increased muscle mass, dermatological break outs, thinning hair on my scalp, while the hair on the rest of my body becomes thicker and more course, increased libido, to name a few of the symptoms...

I can't help but wish that I knew more about the specifics of this bio-chemical equation, and the related structures of the brain. There is a doctor that takes scans of the brain for every possible neurological problem out there, and found obvious patterns emerging from over- or under-active centers of these focal points within the brain. I wish I had gotten some scans of my own little cranium to better understand how these other ingredients have tweaked my chemical levels before I began my testosterone injections. Things like dopamine, adrenaline, cortisol, etc. I dunno.

My brain being the way it is – trying heed the lessons to be learned by observing men outside the pubescent phase. How do adolescent boys approach love and dating? And how do middle aged men negotiate romance, when it's not so fixated on lust or carnal desires? Maybe that's where I need to start.

Can anyone explain this stinking diagram for me then?

Nipped/Tucked (and then sewn back on)

I was kind of spacing while gchatting with a friend of mine, and had landed on Nip/Tuck while channel surfing. My boss is obsessed with this show, but I never really cared about it. Yet, tonight was a trans-extravaganza as tranny hottie Candis Cayne (pictured above) co-starred in this episode. Apparently she hooked up with the hott, studly doc, only to afterwards tell him that she wanted his assistance to become a man. He explained that he prefers women, and why mess up a good thing – where she then responded by telling him that she was born a male, had the old switch-a-roo at 23, and has lived as a woman ever since. She gave some slack ass reasoning for wanting to become a man again (clearly under-thought by the writers here), and the doc complied. (These kind of themes typically infuriate me, as everyone thinks it's so funny to have the tranny dress in contrast to however they usually dress daily. Ugh! Kill me now! I'm so over it.)

They showed the butched up version of Candis post-"pp"-op in a man's suit, and hair shortened, dyed dark, and swooped back. Not a good look. Hell, even Dustin Hoffman looked better as a woman than Mz. Cayne looked as a man, if that's any indication... I'm just sayin'!

But it was interesting to see that this transwoman could no longer pass as a man. There is some sort of vindication in there somewhere. That part seemed redeeming after such a shitty and banal plot twist.

What a funny day to finally catch that show. Talk about timing. Trannies, trannies, everywhere...

Miss you much...

Things are still incredibly busy for me, so I will try to jump in now that I have a few moments to write a quick entry. It's been a crazy day, which started very early for me. I've been running around to a smattering of client meetings, with a doctor's appointment peppered in there mid day. My mind is still racing, as I am hoping not to forget anything urgent, so please forgive me as this might display that sense of distraction I'm feeling now.

I got a call back from one of my best friends that her artistic mentor is dying, and might not make it until Thanksgiving. This famous photographer, with whom she worked closely for many years was just diagnosed with cancer. She was at a loss, as she uttered meekly: "I might not ever see him again." Right.

My heart sank, as I, too, felt at a loss, calculating what would be the right words to say to my heartbroken friend. This artist was more than just her boss – and more than her mentor. And it made me realize the multitude of connections we can share with people. I began to examine my own relationships more closely after reflecting upon her ties to this artist that spanned over a decade.

I think of myself as a loner mostly, hermetically sanctioned off in my bedroom typing away at this project or that, or flying solo throughout my day of work, but it's not that simple. Today alone I had hours worth of quickfire texting and email exchanges with so many people whom I love. Despite being alone – I am not alone. Even if I am the only one within the confines of any given room, or walking by myself, I am beginning to understand the dimensions of these relationships that make me who I am.

When I think of my friend immersed within that sense of preparatory mourning tinged with the horrible anxiety of that awaited phone call – my heart breaks for her. I have been there, and I know that kind of waiting for the inevitable. So urgent, yet so endless.

Honestly, I am in sort of a similar state myself, as my Polish Grandmother who is 99, but claims to be 98, was diagnosed with congestive heart failure over the summer. But she is so old, and her kidneys are so weak that the treatment to assist her heart would plunge her immediately into kidney failure. So, we are waiting it out. Waiting. And I feel like an asshole for not knowing what to say, or how to make myself more emotionally available to my friend and my grandmother. The testosterone has granted me a sense of detachment, which I have sometimes welcomed, but times like now, I fear makes me seem empty and robotic.

I have learned to live without everything I have ever loved. There were two girlfriends I had with whom I wanted to live into eternity, and both of those relationships ended. One of whom I will probably never speak to again. As much as things are better with my family now that they are all using the new name and new gender pronouns, I still don't feel as close I as used to with them. And most of my friendships go through dormant stages, where we seem to drift apart and sometimes drift back together again.

But going through my transition forced me to realize that undeniable truth that we are in this alone. And that any connections that we forge are by choice, and should be revered. I remember growing up and being kind of resentful that my father could seem so detached at times. He didn't appear nearly as upset as I projected when his parents died, or when his younger brother died of complications from AIDS being a heroin addict. But as I am getting older, and as the combination of meds and T settle in, and reset my brain's chemistry, I understand now where his reactions may have been rooted.

Don't get me wrong – I miss people, and I think fondly of those who are no longer in my close vicinity, but it's different now. It's not the same codependent spin, of fearing that I couldn't live without this lover or that friend. (There has been a woman with whom I've gone out on some dates, and she once commented that she wants to find "not a person she can live with, but someone she can not live without...") And I wonder if I sort of envy that kind of desire, and if my luke warm stature will leave me empty hearted. I'm not sure. I don't feel 'lucky' for the absence of the vibrancy I used to know, but the lack of mello-drama is a welcomed change.

All I have to go on is who I miss. That part is clear.

Tweed, Indeed!

Yesterday, DC's first ever Tweed Ride whooshed through this city's urban landscape, woven wool, and newsie caps on hand. I was so bummed that I had to work and miss this hallowed event. (Although secretly I was terrified that my crappy 20 year old bike, and my cranky 34 year old ass, wouldn't make it more than 4 blocks. Yes, both of us are in terrible need of a tune up!)

But check this shit out! There were over 300 riders, dandies and their gals in attendance. These folks made an afternoon out of playing dress up like it was just another day – in 1922. Not only were they all so dreamy, but they made this city feel *cool* again. Tweed Rides started in London, and have been popping up all over in cities that pride themselves on their DIY countercultures.

I think what I love most is that there is a certain appeal about the 'days of old' – the romanticism of not only well tailored ensembles, but also of honor and class. (In this instance, I mean class as in someone has a 'classy style,' not as in a caste system.) Days when being a gentle-man sometimes meant one had to duke it out in a old fashioned duels in order to protect and defend one's honor. There seems to be a big lure reeling in some of this artsy counterculture – some people who would otherwise never want to voluntarily wear a suit or ruffled blouse or dress. And I love that there is a chosen return to not only to upping the ante style-wise, but also inclusive of the implied charms of that 'golden age.' The modern man embracing much that is antiquated and 'dustily' vintaged to craft himself into the perfect contemporary specimen. Amazing, really.

When I was in college I studied Gender Studies for a while. No big surprise, I am sure, but it's coming back to me now with delightful enthusiasm. I remember objectively looking at various eras in American history, and there appeared to be a pendulum swing between extremes in hetero-gendered behavior (meaning genders were thought to be polarized archetypes), versus a swell of a more androgynous pinnings.

For instance, the image of Rosie the Riveter from the 1940s – women flooding the workplace where men previously resided, depicted and marketed as just as strong and valuable as men. They were told it was patriotic to fill in these typically masculine jobs. But when the male soldiers returned home from World War II, many of these women were displaced, and found themselves being tossed aside, told that they were weak and unwanted. Post war, in the late 1940s through the early 1960s these ladies were primed to become homemakers, wives, and mothers, instead of workers. Again, a man's place was out in the world, and a woman's place was in the home. Very polarized indeed.

Not to go off on a huge tangent, but it's interesting to see how these things evolve, and the emergence of newer trends. All of this to say: I am excited about these newer patterns of masculinity embracing the charm, charisma and etiquette of yesteryear, but fused with a more progressive, emotionally available, mindful thread. I am ready.

The Wedding Favor

Okay, so admittedly, I am a little tipsy. I had a long day of work, and came home to make an unsatisfying salad for dinner, with a small glass of wine. I didn't realize that if you haven't eaten much all day, that shit goes straight to your head. That said...

I am getting ready to go to one of my best friend's wedding receptions. This is the same friend whom I mentioned before, who got married several weeks ago. They are holding the reception tonight in DC for those of us who couldn't make the destination wedding. I was one of those fools...

Waiting until the last minute to purchase their wedding gifts, I struggled with the type of present I should give the happy couple. My friend mentioned that she wanted a Wii Fit, but her husband opted for some other type of video game contraption. (Can you tell I'm not a tech-nerd?) Do I get her that gift, or would it seem like some passive aggressive competition with her new husband? My best friend suggested I purchase straight from the registry, and only opt for gifts that they both could use.

So, I went to Crate and Barrel and got them the Cuisinart hand blender they desired, along with some cooking and baking accoutrement. I felt guilty for not being willing to shell out the $750 for 36 hrs in Key West for their wedding, but wasn't sure how much to spend on their gifts to show that I was bummed to miss their dreamy wedding, yet not trying to out do or out spend the other guests with their selections. Ugh! Too much with which to contend. I'm not swift enough for this kind of thing.

The worst part is that the sale associate at Crate and Barrel boxed everything up for me, but they are kind of awkwardly shaped boxes. Ones that I am unsure if I can wrap myself because of the weird dimensions. Am I lame that I want to use the excuse: "I'm a dude now," and therefore, I don't have to be concerned with aesthetic gestures such as wrapping paper and wide ribbon bows?

In my family, wrapping a gift is like an art form. It fits in under the umbrella of my mother's vanity, where she literally totes around the presents she's wrapped for the holidays expecting each individual to tell her that she's really out done herself this year. And yes, I am closer to that side of the decorating spectrum. But I fear trying too hard will make more of a spectacle than not trying hard enough. I dunno.

A woman I used to like got married. Isn't it nice that I got them anything at all?

Hiatus Hernia

(I tried to find funny hernia picks, and pretty much threw up in my mouth a little. Don't ever do a Google image search for hernias. Woooof! Gross stuff. Opted for this image instead to do a pictorial representation of my hiatus from writing. Egh?)

I'm trying to figure out where to begin today. I've sort of accidentally taken a hiatus from writing in general, but more specifically from The Art of Manliness "30 Days to a Better Man" Series – which is okay by me. Things haven't gotten that much easier since my boss has arrived back from his mid life vacrisis (half vacation, half crisis ~ to clarify! It wasn't some new insider lingo for "vajayjay," like Oprah says...) I'm simply exhausted. The weather undulating from 75º and glaringly sunny two days ago, to 43º with 50 mph winds, and driving rain today knocked me on my ass. (Luckily my ass is pretty padded, so I faired well.) But one client's dog smashed me in the face, and I feared it broke my nose, while another dog turned quickly, and headed butted my left quad muscle. Yep, one of those days.

Everything is fine, but I just feel a bit 'wonky,' like my body is about to crash, and give way to some impending cold its been staving off. We'll see. In the meantime, I just want to rest and relax, and maybe throw some ideas out there.

First of all: Can you believe that I have had over 1,000 hits to this blog of mine since I set it up two months ago? I feel like Sally Field accepting her Oscar. ("They like me, they really, really like me!") Er, sumpthin' like that.

Second of all: The more dates that I go on, the less that I actually talk about them. It hasn't been a conscious choice, per se ~ but I fear that things I write might be misconstrued, and so I have been more mindful of what approach I should be taking. Yet, I haven't employed said new approach. Obviously!

Third of all: I am finding that if I don't come out and blatantly state that I am trans within moments of meeting someone, I then let it slide, and never know when the *right* time is for such disclosure. (I had a friend who was divorced and had two kids, and her impromptu rule was if someone said six sentences to her, she had to fess up about her family.) Do I need something of that sort now? If so, what would it be?

Fourth: HOW do I tell someone I am trans? I am sort of known for being the funny one at a party, and I am trying to deduce what sly way I can slide that bit of info into casual conversation without putting anyone on the spot or under a microscope. I think the sooner the better, and the funny and more charming versions would probably have a better outcome. No? But what does *that* actually look like? What do I say in there?

Fifth: I had an interesting realization the other day – I can count on one hand the amount of people that I have kissed that I haven't gone on to date. I have only had one - one night stand ever, and only hooked up with a couple of people that I never had any true interest in dating. The rest were all people that I *really* hoped could be someone for the long haul. Yes, evidently I am a sappy romantic, who doesn't know how to just casually date for funzies... I don't think there is anything wrong with that, but I see that it's what I am trying to do now, and it is still a bit foreign to me. Anyone have any incredible insight that they'd like to send my way? Apparently all of the testosterone in the world doesn't make me any less of a sap, despite what I projected.

Sixth: I should really go to work now. I started this entry yesterday, and then cut it in half to work on another part as a separate post. Soon I will get back into the routine of writing everyday again. I swear.

Until then – anyone wanna teach me how to be a playa? Jk~

The Maddest of the Men

Okay, so admittedly I am not the smartest of the bunch. I was far too old when I deciphered "Haz Mat" meant "hazardous materials" on interstate highway signs. Or like when I was studying Latin in high school, and deduced that 'Albertus Magnus' College sort of translated into 'Fat Albert' College... (My high school Latin teacher was not amused.)

It wasn't until the other night that I started to examine all of the characters' names on Mad Men. "Sterling" as the silver fox, "Campbell" cuz he's canned and never satisfying, on and on. Which brings me to Don Draper. "Don" like the head of an Italian Mafia family, and "Draper" as in one who hides behind a shrouded veil of secrecy. Uh-duh! I'm pretty slow sometimes. Well, most times. And the T doesn't help matters.

But it got me to thinking about pasts. More specifically, it made me think about my own past. Dating now is a bit tricky at best. In no way am I comparing myself to Don Draper, but... This idea of having a secret history, one that wouldn't immediately be assumed by those who surround us, or even by those who know us intimately. (Wait, that was a comparison, then, wasn't it? Whoops!)

Draper seems fleetingly haunted by this past that he can't ever fully escape. And I suppose that is the problem with a shroud: it only conceals what we hope to cover up, but doesn't make that subject disappear. There is no way to erase what already existed – it just is, or at least, was...

For me, I don't wish to erase my past, my history in various forms. Be it the feminine form, or my sordid romantic chronology, which may rival that of this aforementioned televised Casanova. But there are some elements that I would gladly try to conceal. Namely: I am not so great at relationships.

The Don Draper character keeps shuttling himself between the narcissistic impulses of adultery, thinking he not only can have it all – but that he *deserves* it all, versus, feeling the bottom nearly drop out from under him, where he then scrambles to reconfigure the life he feels he may lose at a moment's notice. That kind of struggle is what makes his character human, and makes us relate to his experiences. Even when the plot drags, there is something (at least for me) that makes me not want to give up on him, or the show on the whole. Like a relationship that has extended past the honeymoon phase, I still tune in out of loyalty, curiosity, and hope for connections fostered.

I don't think I am as snide, or exude as much of a sense of entitlement as Draper might, but I definitely can have my moments. My reflections on my most recent relationship brings me here, to this humbled realization: I can live without anything, but the only demons that haunt me are the things I have not done well.

Throughout my life I have been plagued with a sense of inner turmoil. I was a chronically ill child who easily spun out of control emotionally. As a kid, I frequently envisioned my own demise at the hands of a stranger, which is still as frightening to admit now in my mid-thirties. Many of the relationships I have experienced have been wrought with traumas and abuses. All of this to say: I have been terrified and terrorized by the very process of living. As a result, there are things that I have not handled as gracefully as I wish I could have. Romantic endeavors being the focal point of that declaration.

It is somewhat easy for me to live without things, as maybe the tough part is living *with* things. Having transitioned, I had to prepare myself for possibly losing everything and everyone. I lived through the awkwardness of strained relations, and dynamics that were too unhealthy to sustain. It granted me some perspective, and strengthened my own foundation as a resilient individual. (In the past, my codependent ties kept me tethered to those of whom I desperately wanted to love me. It was incredible to know that I will be okay without those loves, those lovers, or that support I feared I couldn't survive losing.)

As much as I miss certain people, or certain intimacies shared amongst confidantes, I am a pretty hermetic type of person. I tend to opt for an evening alone to write or watch some poignant film, rather than hit the bars with my buddies. Being alone doesn't scare me, I often prefer it. But the part that I have found challenging is immersing myself within a relationship, to only then learn all that I still need to fix. We are all flawed, but often don't realize just how flawed we are until we really *need* to be perfect (and sadly discover that we are not).

My last relationship came after a year of being single – a year of tremendous transformations and self-improvements. But I found out that all of my transformations happened in a vacuum. It's easy to feel healthy and whole when we don't have a context through which to explore other facets of our being. Love relationships make us feel vulnerable. They remind us of our fragility and weaknesses, and typically provoke us when we are painted into those dark corners. Partners push buttons we didn't even know existed in us.

After a year of being alone post break up from a very tough relationship, I thought I might have been ready to try again. Unfortunately, the only way to see if I was ready was to throw myself in head first to this new romance. Needless to say, I landed on my head, and I'm still picking myself up, and dusting myself off from the rocky landing. This last relationship was a wake up call to all that I still needed to resolve within myself. Those demons that needed exorcizing, and stagnation that needed some circulation. But I heeded those calls, and took responsibility for those changes that needed to occur. That was a huge part of the impetus to find external assistance with my lingering anxiety (which then shifts into depression if left unattended). And why I upped my T doses to the suggested amount again, trying to strike that delicate balance, which we all know is no small task. I feel like 'a new man,' and wonder if I really am as good as I feel now. (It begs to question if I just feel 'fixed' because I am single again, and have no context through which to remind me of my still damaged edges.)

I reflect upon Don Draper and all that he lost because of his impetuousness, and enigmatic shrouds covering past personas. (Reminding me of that line from Iron & Wine's song "The Trapeze Swinger": "Please remember me, my misery, and how it lost me all I wanted." ) I have been too hot headed, and at times felt too entitled to love well. I lost a lot. Lost big. Maybe I needed to lose it all in order to find out what was worth keeping. It's too bad that I only learned what needed fixing in myself after I broke the one relationship that seemed worth keeping.

As season three of Mad Men ends leaving us wondering how this new chapter will unfold, I am thinking that this may also be my own version of a cliffhanger. Now that I've instituted so many changes in my life, and started anew – where will this new line lead me post break-up, with newfound stability, patience, reserve, and fortitude? I guess I'll just have to tune in...

Op Ed

I got a lot of funny responses about yesterday's entry. Some people wondered if the car incident was 'ghostly,' a bit of sleepwalking on my part, or a figment of my imagination all around. Um... But the majority of people seem to think that it was some sort of tom foolery, which doesn't make sense knowing my friends and exes, and the exes who are friends, and the friends I had hoped to date someday... (Wait.) All of this to say: I am still stumped. Imagining there are teeny microscopic cameras now impregnated in my car's dash, I get a little more insecure when I belt out my favorite cheesy pop songs. (It's like that trivia show "Cash Cab," but without the cash, and without the cab. But just like that!)



My boss seemed to think that I was offended that the perpetrator didn't fancy any of my hidden treasures. I kept trying to explain that I just don't get it, and he kept saying: "I know Will, I'm sure you think your things are wonderful, but apparently this other person disagrees." Fucker. That's not what I meant! What – the mysterious 'non-robber' who *didn't* 'break in' to my car, but somehow shimmied his (or her) way in gently to my modest little automobile – this perp wasn't a metrosexual dwarf looking for men's small Prada boots, fancy men's facial moisturizers, A.D.D. meds to snort, while listening to indie Icelandic electropop, and proactively making lists of the items he'd purchase at Whole Foods, Best Buy, and Starbucks, from the gift cards I've received from clients and family members? WTF?

Moving right along... My ego is about to rupture from all of this flattery as of late. A friend casually mentioned that her visiting cohorts were practically gushing at how hott they thought I was as I let them crash at my house on Saturday night, and while we caught up the next morning before they headed out. Funny.

One of my gay clients keeps finding a way to get home just in time to coincidentally bump into me, when he has no reason to be home. He finds a way to walk behind me in the hall, leading to his apartment. It would be nice and complementary, but he's nearly 50, and my ass is not my best feature. (Thanks to my Polish Grandmother! Arg!) I keep being afraid that I'll come in to find him in some tacky smoking jacket left wide open, while reclining on their pastel floral couch. Man alive.

And the strangers are still talking to me left and right. I can literally see them primping themselves, and trying to walk taller and fix their hair right before they pass me. When did I become THAT GUY that they needed to impress? Seriously?!? It's so insane. I really don't look that different – it must be the pheromones. I feel like some vain douchebag even mentioning this stuff. But it's like all of those dumbass flicks I grew up on in the 80s, where some weird cosmic shift happens, and suddenly the protagonist is handsome, popular, and spontaneously becomes the alpha in their circles at school. But I'm not in school, and I've always been kind of funny and likable. At least that's what my Mom says. Kidding. (She doesn't actually think I'm funny.)

I had a long talk over dinner last night about all of the changes I've experienced over the years, and how I can actually quantify each affect and side effect based on which ever variable is in the cross hairs, be it testosterone, Adderal, etc. Crazy. It's been a month and a half almost since I upped my dose of T, and it's all changed. This is how it was three years ago when I first started T, and since then, I reduced the amount that I would inject biweekly, and many of the effects softened or dissolved. Now it's all back full force, and I forgot what it was like.

Jeez. How could I have prepared for this? (Poor me, right?)

Let's Recap

Sorry I haven't been too disciplined about writing over the past few days. My boss is having a mid life crisis of sorts, and left on a 5 day trip to Mexico with a friend from college. I joked with him that I imagined that he would be tempted to drink tequila shots on the beach into infinity, while I nervously tried to run his business, wondering if I got 'fired' or inherited the whole damn thing.

I was so swamped, and had a flurry of random events happen. Let's recap, shall we?

My car was 'mysteriously entered' by a stranger, yet no windows were broken, and nothing was taken – yet all of the items previously tucked away neatly in all forms of automotive compartments were found strewn all over the front seats. Things like my clients' keys, my wallet with all of my credit cards, unused gift cards, $26 worth of cash, roughly 60 cds, my digital tuner to use my iPhone as an iPod in my car; and in the trunk: a pair of Prada urban Chelsea boots, a sweatshirt, scarf and knit hat for the cold weather, and a 25 lb bag of salmon flavored dog food. All of the doors were locked when I approached, no windows were broken, but everything was out of place, and all about the seats, as if someone was just taking inventory. And I had taken a client's dog out in the rain the day before, and the muddied paw prints stamped out in the back seat were unscathed, meaning no one appeared to have slept there, (or screwed there) overnight.

Why wouldn't they at least take the cash and untraceable gift cards? Or if it was a homeless person, why not take the warm clothes? Was one of my doors ajar when I locked it the night before? My car has an alarm, which should have gone off. Why did they lock the doors back up after not taking anything, but leaving my wallet on the seat for the entire world to view? So confused! It reminded me of that urban legend about the honeymooning couple in Jamaica whose room was 'disturbed' by an intruder, but nothing was taken ~ yet they returned home to find their toothbrushes had been 'tainted' (a la 'up the ass') by the unknown villain. Needless to say, this was the first thing that came to mind, and I ditched my bottle of water and lip balm instantly. But seriously, WTF? Others have told me that it sounded like an angry ex. But I bought this car since I've been single, so no exes would've even known to look for it...



But I digress.

I also have been going out a lot more after my uber long work days, which has been nice to reconnect, but has also left me incredibly tired. I'm getting so old.

Over the weekend, I helped out at the Transformer Art Gallery Auction, held at the Mexican Cultural Center a few blocks from my house, here in DC. It was pretty amazing. I reconnected with a lot of old friends, found some more people to interview for this here trusty blog, and was hit on ad nauseum by hott artsy ladies, and short, well coiffed gay men. It was hilarious. There was this one woman who looked like a more gorgeous version of a young Debbie Harry who kept flirting with me all night, and a 6'7" bear of a man, who kept hugging me all night, despite his wife being affixed to his hip. Odd. Nice to know I "still got it!"

But I became so busy with work with my boss was away that I missed a brunch date that I had, and today will prove to be yet another 'make or break' day, even though my boss has returned. sigh ~

I should go, but will promise to write more this afternoon. Things I missed covering:

The Art of Manliness Series for the "30 Days to a Better Man" told me to make a meal (which I know how to do), create a budget (which I am terrified to do, meaning I need it the most), and talk to strangers (upon which I am improving, I'll have you know!)

I went out to dinner with my friend visiting from out of town, and her boyfriend. We went to a dive Mexican place in my neighborhood, where my friend kept commenting on how amazing I look now, and how I am even beginning to have a little too much bravado. (Did I mention that I resumed with my full doses of testosterone for the past month? Seriously: within 4 days of upping my T levels, perfect strangers were coming up to me on the street to chat with me about anything and everything. "How old is your dog?" "Do you know the time?" "Can you believe this weather we're having?" Really??? Really... Pheromones are the shiznit, man!)

As of this week, I think I am officially 'cocky' (no pun intended...) The more aloof I've become, and unwaivering in my self confidence, the more people have been seeking me out, as opposed to the sensitive, nurturing type that always left me feeling too vulnerable and weak. Fuck it! Fuck all of it! No more apologies. No more waffling, and wobbling. No more trying to be whatever someone else wants. Take me or leave me, but have me as I am. Which apparently is a cock-sure asshole, who borders on smug, and surly. Awesome – I have arrived. Hormones are bizarre things, not to be monkeyed with... Oh well. Too late now!