Not Going out

 Not the BBC comedy sitcom and definitely not a self-imposed challenge like 'Not Buying More Dresses' post a couple of months back following a closet clean out, and which I have observed more in the letter than the spirit of the challenge, having acquired several more pairs of jeans/jeggings and all-in-one jumpsuit [something Sue Richmond gleefully described as my Space Command Deck outfit - though in my defence I did have a serious crush on Gabrielle  Drake in UFO in my teens, and almost certainly coveted that famous purple bob wig and silver lurex catsuit as well.] 

It's more that I can't remember the last time I managed to get outside the house as Susie. The blog roll reminds me that this was in February, the last time I had a couple of days to myself, but nowhere more adventurous than an aborted walk to the local nature reserve (which turned out to be far too muddy to attempt) and one of the local parks. Between work, various hurts, illnesses or ailments (both of us, at different times), and the vagaries of the weather (either wet and rainy or far too hot and muggy) there haven't been any opportunities for any extended time on my own as Susie.

I've not been completely stuck in bloke mode since February though. I've been taking advantage of non-work Friday mornings and occasional work-from-home Thursdays when I don't have a series of meetings to dress when L goes out for a few hours in the morning, mindful that I have to be changed back and everything tidied away when she is due to return home around lunchtime. I don't know if L knows, or guesses, how I spend that 'me' time when she's out - it's not something we can discuss - but she will often phone to warn me if she expects to be back earlier or later then normal.

While a couple of hours doesn't justify a proper makeover, and is also something of a waste of makeup if you have to scrub it  all off again shortly after, a minimal swipe with an eyebrow pencil, liner and lip outliner has to suffice to stop me feeling trapped in bloke mode all the time. Nails, of course, are out of the question.

It's something I've come to refer to as 'microdosing'. Short periods where I can be my preferred self and release the pressure - or more accurately a feeling of restless - that arises when I've been stuck in bloke mode for too long. 

The danger is that is this becomes the new normal, and the opportunities and luxury of having two or three days to myself when L goes away on a trip might become a thing of the past. Neither of us are getting younger and each mornings is an adventure at discovering new ways in which different parts of the body can throw unexpected twinges and aches. One of which sent me to a doctor for the first time in years when I developed a low level but intermittently persistent ache across my chest. A nice lady doctor gave me an all clear after massaging my breasts - which was not anywhere near as erotic as it sounds - but the ache and tenderness is still there. On the upside, after a lifetime of being flat as an ironing board I seem to developed A cup tits a 12 year old girl might be proud of. Curious, though not unpleasing.

Not buying more dresses

 I know. It's a bit of an alien concept. But I'm trying to be good.

Following the last blog post, two large bags of clothes (both his and hers) have been removed from the closet and the house and donated back to the Blue Cross shop, allowing some of overflow stash in the spare room to be moved back into the closet. The overall effect doesn't appear to have made much of a difference. There are still close to 40 dresses in there, but culling a number of outfits that would likely have caused raised eyebrows  and tuts on someone a good 30 years younger, as well as several jeans (when did 'he' last wear a pair of jeans?), tops, shirts and an old suit from 'his' side of the closet gives them (and the moths) a bit more room to breathe and means I no longer have to take a dozen things out the closet just to select a particular dress.

The ridiculously short pink peach dress picked up from £3 sale rack was also returned to the shop with a weak and probably transparent excuse that 'she' thought it was nearer an 8 than a 10 when she tried it (which , given the Primark label that I should have noticed at the time, was probably true.) Browsing the rack before leaving I was tempted by, but resisted, a black and white polka dot flared midi dress. Looking at it again a couple of days later I decided there was something I wasn't quite happy with and left it. A few days later I was similarly tempted by another black-on-white print midi/knee-length dress but left it on the rail to see if I felt the same about it a day later, but by which time it had gone, making the decision easier. 

You do see some odd stuff in charity shops though. Last week there were three OTT short flouncy peach-pink bridesmaids' dresses on the same rack (they must have hated the bride for that, or possibly vice versa), and another(XXL, almost as wide as it was short) in white this week. Or how about a pair of orange bondage-strap jeggings.  

Just after my own closet cull I spend a large part of an afternoon in a long back and forth Facebook exchange with someone who had posted about having to be ruthless in decluttering their own closet (more enviously a walk-in wardrobe) headed by a very similar photo of a crammed closet to the one in my post.  That collection, amassed over a shorter 10 year period, was largely new designer outfits in the $100-$600 range, and would have given me a lot more pause than a cull of my own charity shop gleanings. (I spent most of a morning running a quick-change photoshoot to check which skirts and dresses were much too girly/short/tight and ought to be culled since the camera was likely to be less forgiving than the mirror. All now safely deleted, even the ones that didn't immediately make me wince. Incidentally, it's not a wise idea to mirror your OneDrive import folder on your partner's PC, even when you are careful to delete stuff since those deleted files and folders also show up in her own recycle bin and raise awkward questions about where they'd come from.

There are probably still another dozen dresses/tops that could be culled for donation and recycling. I notice I have periodic fads for certain styles of outfit and one of those was for peplum waists, and I could probably lose several of those. Likewise bolero tops. How very 80s. Luckily I never succumbed to Dynasty shoulder pads. (I really don't need any help there.)

Until next time, be good, or if not at least be careful or fab (or both).

xx

Susie

27 (or more) Dresses and the Rule of Three

 Idly flipping TV channels before the footie yesterday afternoon, I caught part of the start of the romcom movie  27 Dresses just at the point where the wedding journalist Kevin Doyle (James Marsden) interviews Jane (Katherine Heigl) who has been a 27 times bridesmaid for her friends, and discovers she still has all the bridesmaids dresses crammed into a closet in her small apartment. 

Kevin declares that they are all uniformly terrible, and the main point of a bridesmaids' dress is to be so awful that even the plainest bride looks good in comparison, and dismisses even the least offensive that Jane picks out in defence as being "vomit coloured". In a scene that will be very familiar to those of us who have far too many frocks and too little opportunity to wear them, Jane models each of the outfits one after the other during a hilarious impromptu photoshoot. (Which only goes to prove Kevin's point - although I will admit to a slight envy for the floaty peach/orange number.)Naturally, afterwards I had to go and count just how many dresses I had crammed in my own closet. Which turned out to be more than 27 and nearer 32 or 33. And that's just those hanging in the closet, ignoring another 10-12 in the spare room - or  skirts, suits and tops. Is that too many? How many is too many?

L hasn't worn a dress since 1988, so there was no help there. 
Google AI suggests women have around 18  dresses on average,  ranging from 2 to 30+, which puts a figure of 30-50 in the "I may have a dress problem"* range. 
[* Well, yes, rather obviously  I do have a dress problem, certainly as far as L is concerned even if I don't see in the same way, but that's a whole other conversation that we won't go into here.]
Google AI also suggests that most women have between 70-100 items of clothing overall. I suspect, if I dared add them up, I could easily double that. 

The sheer amount of stuff that has accumulated in 40 odd years of browsing charity shops presents a more practical problem of storage. When we first moved here, 30 something years ago, I could hide all my girl stuff into a small suitcase. Now, I probably have more (and certainly nicer) girl clothes than boy clothes, and certainly more than I have opportunity to wear. From being able to  hide Susie's undies discreetly beneath my socks, pants and t shirts in the bedside dresser, Susie's stuff has now taken over two bottom drawers of the dresser and evicted 'his' t-shirts, socks and pants to an untidy pile on the chair at the foot of the bed.

I guess 50-odd dresses is too many, which led me to think about a Rule of Three. A third could be likely donated or recycled, as either unflattering, too short even for Stana's  fingertip test, or bought as retail therapy and worn only once or twice. Another third are definite keepers, practical or favourites that  I keep going back to; and maybe another third that fall between the two, that are pretty or make me feel good but I probably wouldn't want to wear outside the house. 
As a case in point, I picked up two 'new' dresses in the last couple of weeks, lured by 'everything £3 or less' sale in one of the charity shops. 
   

The one on the left is probably a keeper: it's a nice fit, decent length and feels comfortable. 

The one is the middle looked lovely in the window display during the week and I took a punt on it when it went back on the rack. But while it feel lovely and floaty, it's way too short and probably a size too small. (I can still squeeze a 10, but sometimes it really is a squeeze.) 

The third picture is one of those in-betweens that falls into that third rule, as an old favourite that is still a bit tight and only just passes the fingertip test for being too short.

I'm a bit undecided about this one. I keep moving it between the donate/recycle pile and the keep pile. Having worn it again, I think I might put it back on the reserve pile, at least for summer.

***

I was looking forward to attending Witney Pride again this weekend, as this year would likely be my last chance to take part in the march and help run the stall with my company, and I wanted to be able to go again as Susie this year. Unfortunately there was a email at work at the beginning of this week that said there had been too few volunteers to justify a place in the march or to run run a stall this year, although a few people might still attend. 

I might still have gone, except I was relying on using the stall as somewhere convenient to leave my bulky bag of boy clothes, shoes and makeup after finding somewhere to change, rather than having to cart it around all day. So regretfully, I'll probably pass this year and go to the Saturday lunch and bring and buy sale at the church instead.

xx

S
 

Back out the box.

It seems I can't even be trusted to go out to pick up some bread and not come back with a new petticoat (or pair of shoes).

"You can always return it with the receipt if it doesn't fit" said the lady in the charity shop. "That's OK", it'll probably go straight into her dressing up box.", leaving it open whether said box belonged to a daughter, partner or me. And anyway at just £2, I'll more likely just donate it back.

But it was a keeper. And then I had an unexpected day to myself on Friday while L went to London.

 .

I'm definitely channelling my inner 1950s housewife here.

Then, because it been a long time since I had the opportunity, I'm afraid I got a bit carried away.

Probably overdoing the '50s look a bit. Or even forties from the style of the favourite red frock below. This was one of the first dresses I ever bought for myself some 40 years ago, and had been taken in and let out so many times there's almost none of the original stitching left. I love the slight puffed sleeves and flared skirt. I've loved to have worn this to the VE Day anniversary lunch party.

Amazing how a grey wig ages you (or reveals my true age).

I'll keep that one in reserve in case I get invited to the WI. (Who have, to their credit, re-stated that they are open to all women, regardless of why might be on their birth certificate.)

The red/ginger wig below left came from from Lynn, bless her.

 

And then, sadly, she has to go back in the box until next time.

xx

S

Quiet pleasures.

  In her recent post Better than the Past  Lynn mentioned the enjoyment of quiet time to get on with household chores while spending time not stuck in bloke mode. (Not that either of us, I think, would consider ourselves at all 'blokey'.)  It also coincided with the first extended free time I've had to let out my Susie side since the end of last August, so Saturday was a blitz of washing and drying umpteen pairs of tights and smalls after an early morning bottle bank run and to drop a repeat prescription into the box at the health centre. Then some quiet me time pottering about and watch the darts on TV (and idly checking off the drag fancy dress in the audience). Sunday evening I felt like dressing up a bit after a weekend slopping around in a jeans, sweater and flats jeans and decided I should release my inner Nigella before settling down with a bottle of wine. 

As I mentioned to Lynn, I wonder sometimes who I'm dressing up when I slip into something more constricting and raid the jewellery box: me, or an imagined beau? (And what would happen if one turned up, ideally bearing flowers and chocolates.)

Early Monday morning, after  a quick browse of the sales racks in Sainbury's, I popped across intending a quick walk through the nature reserve, to be confronted by a sea of mud on the approach path and decided I'd need something more sturdy than low-heeled ankle boots until it dried out a bit. So back home for coffee and then a trip to the library to return a couple of books and a quick trawl of the local charity shops. While I've long got over any embarrassment at buying woman's items in charity shops in boy-mode (most assistants either don't care or notice, and a sale is a sale) there's something a bit freer about doing it as Susie, where you pull things off the rack and hold them against yourself in front of a mirror to check the length.

How many, if any, of the shop assistants have made the connection between Susie and the bloke who browses the same racks most weekends is another matter. The sweet trader on the market, who I greeted twice on the same morning, first as Susie and then an hour and a half later as bloke-me didn't seem to notice anything or at least didn't comment. The real test, I suspect, would be if I encountered anyone from the local church group while out as Susie. So far I've dodged that one. *

*Postscript Tuesday: Well, that didn't take long to find out, when I got off the bus this morning an found myself directly behind one of the lady volunteers at the local church and who has served me Saturday morning coffee every week for five or six years. No hint of recognition, although she may have been absorbed in her own shopping trip. 

Mousies ate my boobs.

The mice have been at my tits. Luckily I wasn't wearing them at the time (I haven't had an opportunity to express my Susie side for months) or else it might have been even messier, or involved a lot more screaming. At least, I assume it was mice from the scattered filling on the floor and chewed bag.

Without the benefit of shapewear and padding, Susie has all the contours and curvature of a broom handle, with not even enough natural - or easily fakeable - décolletage to fill even a modest 34A bra. If I want a bit of projection out front (and who doesn't?) some artifice is therefore required.

While I was only dressing at home, early experiments with water filled balloons provided a gratifying weight and bounce, although two or three soggy accidents suggested this was not a good look if I wanted to take things outdoors. Pop socks filled with birdseed (or in my case pearl barley) was the next solution and while less bouncy they work reasonably well, especially inside a slightly padded bra. 

I had noticed a small amount of - er- leakage the last time I wore them, but put it down to the wear and tear of being stuffed into a push up T-shirt bra time and again.

I also knew we had a mouse in the study. I'd seen something small and dark scuttle across the floor one morning. We caught it in a humane trap and released it back into the wild at the bottom of the road. I never thought to check the spare room where Susie's stuff is stored away until this morning when I found my boobs, and the bag I store them in, had been chewed though and the contents all over the carpet. Luckily I still had the remainder of the packet to effect a hasty reconstruction.

The trap has been duly moved into the spare room in case the culprit (if it wasn't the same one) is still there and nesting in Susie's unmentionables. It's probably time to have a good clear out there as well while I am at it.

S

Two in the morning

 

I reach over over and switch on the lamp.

“It’s nearly two in the morning for Christ’s sake. Two questions: who are you, how did you get in and what are you doing here?”

OK, three questions. Perhaps I shouldn’t have had that last glass of wine.

But once I am able to focus properly I already know the answer to the first one. The other two are going to take a bit more working out.

I look over the girl standing by the door as she tugs nervously at the hem of the too-short dress and fiddles with her hair. She looks both scared and elated at the same time and probably just as bewildered as me. I recognise her of course. She’s younger than I remember and wearing far too much makeup. When did I stop using blusher? The wig – a cheap and overly shiny Halloween blond bob – is a giveaway. And the too-thick eyebrows. She hasn’t quite found herself yet. She will. My heart goes out a bit.

“Are you ...me?” She looks a bit shocked. Understandable I suppose. It’s not every day you meet your older self. Then again it’s not every day that you take your first brave and tentative steps outside the house dressed to the nines late at night, hoping that no one will notice you or, worse, call you out as anything other than just a woman out walking, but also wanting to be noticed and seen as a woman. I need to point out the paradox of that to her, but to be truthful I’m still half caught up in that mindset all these years later. I decide to take the initiative. “I think we need coffee, don’t you?” She nods. Can imaginary visitations from the past even drink coffee? I suppose we’ll find out. She may well be wondering just the same about me. To be sure, I’m not sure which of us is dreaming who. If indeed one or both of us are dreaming this. I pop into the bathroom on the way to the kitchen and check myself in the mirror. When did my eyes start to get baggy and my jaw drop? It’s hard to tell under under the amount of makeup the younger me is wearing. Has she even found out about contouring yet?

I place a cup of coffee in front of her. At least I know how she likes it. I wonder how much I should tell her about what’s to come. Will it make a difference or change anything, and if it does what would mean for me? Will I still be the same ‘me’? Or will she (or even I) remember any of this afterwards, or experience a Men In Black memory wipe once she leaves? This is what a lifetime of reading science fiction does to you. Not that I’m tempted to go around stamping on butterflies. Especially the one sitting across from me, barely out of her chrysalis.

I wait for her to speak first. After all, I already know and share most of her story.

“How long?” she asks.

“From you to me?” It's August 2024, so just a couple of weeks over 9 years”.

“You look older obviously, but more confident and sure of yourself.”

“Compared to you, or how I remember being you, yes, I’m in a fairly good place at the moment. It’s not perfect and it’s not always been an easy road, but we’ve got through it. Finding friends we could talk to and confide in was a first step, even if only online, and a set of labels (trans, bi-gender, gender fluid) that finally fitted how we felt. And starting to learn not to worry – or indeed give a f**k – about what other people might think when they see you, and accept that if they have a problem then that’s theirs, not ours. That was really liberating.”

“So do I go out more?”

“Oh yes. Not properly for a while yet. There’s a bit of a rough patch to go though first, and then the world will get and feel very strange for a couple of years, but once you’re out the other side of that things will start to look up, especially as you get more confident about yourself and your ability to blend in. One of the keys to that is to pay attention to what other women are wearing and try not to draw the wrong sort of attention. That short dress and those heels for instance - especially when out unaccompanied after dark. I know,” I hold up a hand to forestall her. “You’re worried you won’t pass unless it’s dark. Don’t be. You don’t. I don’t. We’re tall, my posture and walk is wrong and I probably give myself away the moment I speak. We’re still working on that. But you know what? No one really gives a toss. And if they read you and peg you as trans, so what? There are some definite advantages to being older. You become socially invisible. Most people don’t give you a second glance or seem happy to treat you as you present. You won’t get many wolf whistles as a 50 plus woman, but a cheery ‘love’ can give you a buzz for the rest of the day.”

“Although,” I add, jealously, “you do have better legs. They won’t look quite that good again”.

“Maybe”, I muse, “I should visit you instead so I can have your body and my confidence.” She has the grace to look alarmed. “No, we’ve both seen Invasion of the Body Snatchers. And not without a good dose of jealousy, although neither us ever understood quite how the heroine ended up swanning around the desert in that in that gorgeous evening dress after being taken over. Perhaps even aliens have an inner drag queen.”

“On the other hand I have gained a bit more flab over the last few years, so with a bit of help I can almost fake small tits and a bit of cleavage. We’ve always wanted to have breasts, through experimenting with those pills wasn’t such a good idea.” She smiles, nods.

“But please, for our sake, don’t make a habit of going out dressed on your own late at night. It’s not really safe.” Perhaps I should warn her of the scary feeling of being followed late at night, feeling someone still behind you whichever way you turned, but she’ll learn soon enough and it’ll put a stop to many more night time jaunts,

“And at home…?” The question hangs unspoken.

“No, that hasn’t changed. But we’ve learned how to compromise, and give each other time and space to do our own things, even if this is one thing we still can’t share. I still wish, of course, though not without much real hope. It would be nice (big understatement) to be accepted rather than merely acknowledged and tolerated. Birthdays and Christmas can still be tough. Outside the house, though, I can be a bit more open, less guarded.”

“Do other people know about you/Susie/us?”

“A few. It means not always having to pretend or cover up any longer any, which is a relief.”

“How many? Who?”

“Sis initially, then big brother. Not mum though.” I don’t say what provoked that first drunken coming out. It’ll be too much to cope with. I’m not sure I can reply on the MIB memory wipe thing, and there are some thing you shouldn’t know in advance, especially family bereavements.

“Two or three people in fandom who we’ve known for years. I think you can guess who. Then three people on the new Pride Committee at work when I first joined. Rather more now since I attended the last Witney Pride March as Susie. The family don’t know about that one yet, though.”

“You did what?!”

“I thought it was time I lived up to the slogan on the company’s Pride t-shirt -“Bring Your True Self to Work’. OK it wasn’t work exactly, but we had a banner and a place in the march as one the sponsors, and a stall at the event. Although nothing’s been said about it since.”

She’s starting to fade a bit and go transparent. I can see part of the wall behind her. Her coffee remains untouched.

I’m aware I’m talking to much. But there's so much to tell her. To reassure her.

“Listen”, I say. “It’ll be alright. I’m -you’ll be – happy. Or if not happy, content. Just stay away from TERFs and right wing politics and media. Not that I need to tell you that. There’s an anti-trans backlash coming. It won’t be pretty. But real people will have a lot more important things to worry about than whether the unusually tall woman walking along the canal path or in a park, shopping or waiting at a bus stop is trans or not. You’ll do all of those in time, and more. Though you still need to be wary of teenage girls in groups. On their own there’s no problem, they’re usually too busy looking at their phone to even notice you, but in groups of three or four they seem to develop a collective t-dar that can result in odd looks or giggles that can be a bit unsettling. Older women, though, are quite happy to chat to you at a bus stop or in a queue without giving any indication of anything amiss.”

“T-dar?”

“Sorry. Trans radar. It’s a term I picked up from a friend. You’ll develop one of your own because we are constantly watching people around us for clues as to how to try and fit in. You can’t help it.”

“You’ll have good days. Euphoric ones even. Ones you’ll look back on and remember fondly. You’ll have a bucket list of things you want to do as Susie and see a lot of those ticked off. Days out in the park, visits to art exhibitions, museums and church sales, tea rooms, shopping.”

I open the phone and scroll through folders of photos of Susie out at different times and places.

“Wow. That’s quite a lot. I see what you mean about dressing down when out. That little red number would attract all sorts of unwanted attention.”

“Outside of our private fantasies, yes.” We haven’t changed that much it seems, though it now requires a longer stretch of imagination from my perspective than it would from hers. In 2015 she could still get away with something that short without her internal critic muttering something about mutton and lamb.

“And as someone pointed out recently, as a group we are notoriously prone to self documenting. But then so is almost everybody else now on social media. Posting photos is a mix of holding on to and preserving the good times as well as looking for a bit of validation or reassurance. Plus, it has to be said, an element of narcissism.”

I point the phone at her and take a quick snap.

“That’s strange.” She’s not there. Not in the photo anyway, although I can still see her sitting across from me even if I can see most of the wall behind her now. I’ve heard of camera shy (try getting non-Susie me in a group photo) but this is taking it to an extreme. Struck by a sudden thought, I turn the camera around a take a quick selfie. No, I’m still there. I wince a bit and delete it. Not that this really proves anything. Dreams have their own peculiar logic. If this is a dream. I can never remember my dreams anyway, except as short disconnected fragments. And aren’t ghosts supposed to be scary and bring dire warnings rather than appearing as nervous figures from the past looking for reassurance? Or is it me that’s looking for reassurance, that while not perfect, things have actually turned out to be OK after all, or at least something I am reasonably comfortable with? It’s nearly three am now and my brain really isn’t up to this.

She’s almost disappeared now. I wonder what will happen when she’s finally gone. Which of us will wake up and remember any of this?

I can still just about see her. I’m tempted to give her a hug before she goes but I don’t know what would happen or whether it would freak her out. And then it’s too late.

“It’s nearly two in the morning for Christ’s sake”, I hear someone say before the room floods with light.

*****

This was partly inspired by an article written by a friend of mine about an imaginary conversation with her younger self in a dream. Then though my Tumblr page is long deleted my account seems to be still active and sent me an email to remind me that Susie turned 9 on the 18 July, around the same time I started this blog, and the two came together and set me thinking about what had happened in the time between then and now.

xx

S