As Saturday afternoon blended into Saturday evening I laid in the bath amongst the Radox bubbles and the aroma of well-marketed yet reassuring names such as Camomile and Water lilly with a hint of fresh matchstick sulphur from lighting the tea-lights on the window sill. I wondered about my future. My job, did I really like it enough? Was I being true to myself staying? Even where I live I’ve started to feel that may be I need a change even though I quite like it here. Since being at my job the whole gender thing has taken a small backseat and sometimes I just have to remind myself that I’m just waiting it out for a referral decision. The decision for any future referral is still firmly in the hands of the professionals at the local hospital. They didn’t give me a date of when they would convene to discuss it. I have an appointment in August some time but even so I’m wondering whether to call them, make a small pest of myself just to at least satisfy my curiosity.

I swished the bubbles around and renewed a patch of warmth on my chest with the bath water. I looked down at my body. As each month passed some of my masculine body chemistry was pushing away what feminine traits I had. My waist, which at least once went-in a bit giving me some subtle curves, has recently laid a bit of a rug wrapped around me like a huge wide belt of lard that I really can pinch-an-inch. More marketing to blame for that bloody catch phrase. I had put some weight on recently and given I don’t take hormones at the moment, and even if I do get a referral I may not even be on them, the responsibility to get back my curves therefore lies solely with me. There is a stone of weight somewhere in my body that I have to get rid of to get back to that size twelve without it being a tight twelve with some clothes. The only benefit of a little extra fat is that I can feel a small cup of boobs with my hands, enough to at least make my t-shirt taut from nipple to nipple like an ever so slightly slack tight-rope; lets be precise about this.

I finished the weekly scrape of body hair that I have done religiously for at least the last ten years. I thought about it for a moment in the bath water that was now tepid and bubbles replaced with Beaufort scale one flat waters. I wondered if I would ever not shave my legs again. I could only just about remember what they looked like. All I could think of was tree trunks and wood grain with downward pointing hair. There was no way I was going back to that. At least I was certain about some part of my femininity.

I dried and rubbed in the cocoa butter body cream trying to mentally ignore the padding around my stomach and put on the little black cotton dress. It’s a summer beachy thing I bought in Zara with spaghetti straps which just about fits enough that I’ll not get anymore self concious about it. In fact the only dress I own. Well, except two kimonos but they don’t count. Given that with my tastes dresses usually cost a bit and that I’m unlikely to wear it much and so finding it hard to justify spending the money. Wearing a dress around the house is fine but things like that only tend to amplify what I’m missing out on at the moment. Much like my black bikini which I’ve only worn in the South of France and since then the only time I could use, if I felt that desperate, would be in the bath I’d just taken. It sadly waits on a hanger for the summer where I can use it, have the boobs to fill it and without the belly to underpin it.

I finished eating dinner. The thoughts of layers of fat had soon gone and the comfort of my dress was just part of existing but it crossed my mind if tonight was the only time to enjoy it before it hit the linen wash basket then when it came to bed time why didn’t I just flake out on the bed in that dress until I fell asleep. Well, because it was all a bit silly. Besides those spaghetti straps dig in a bit after a while and my black bra, which was once the most comfortable and prettiest bit of underwear I’d bought for a while had lost it’s gentle touch. Fatigued like a late night out the felt edges had become a bit rough. It wasn’t just silly to sleep in my clothes, the bra itself is unnecessary at the moment but the whole idea had proven that I’m just not complete.

There is more to my dilemma than my body. There is the frivolous problem with clothes that need replacing. I need;

  • To take a chance and buy those Taylor Boot jeans in Hollisters and may be I can look as pretty as the American girl wearing them on the web site and have the hips to fill them.

  • Several pairs of knickers in all the right dimensions and make me feel at least a little sexy.

  • Throw away knickers that have threads hanging off rather than cutting them off in the hope that they’ll last longer and that La Senza will return to being the best lingerie shop on the high street with silk french underwear; the odds are long.

  • A new dress, but that can wait, see above.

  • New bikini. Despite my bikini being used on only one holiday, it was cheap and therefore hasn’t lasted long. I must buy a proper surfing type set that’ll last longer, still look and feel great. Must also run a bit longer so I don’t look like I’m a few months pregnant above and below the bikini.

  • Must ebay or similar all my clothes I’m not wearing.

  • Get highlights in my hair.

Good. You’ve read it now so it must happen. It’s not just in my diary but on the internet as well.

I spent Saturday evening under the uplight practicing a classical piano piece until the early hours that I’d kept promising I’d learn since I bought the score in April. All worries about tree-trunk legs and inches of fat had been forgotten. I was simply lost in music and the comfort of that dress. The whole gender thing doesn’t take over my entire life and the clothes are really frivolous part of the problem, but it’s nice when I have something good to wear.

Sunday I splashed the summer blanket of rich reds and blues over a large patch of the lawn and enjoyed the sun between a few cold breezes that washed through the trees in the garden. A sandy coloured vest top and some light blue frayed denim shorts with the zipper nearly up but the button not able to close reminding me to keep running and get that weight down.

Being stuck while those in the medical profession are doing their thing can be frustrating, but there is plenty to do and enjoy in the mean time. Getting on with life and making each day count.

Until next time


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