The Highs And Lows Of Life

These days, chances to spread my feminine wings are few and far between so when opportunities do present themselves, I want to make the most of them.  And one such opportunity did come along a few weeks ago.

I’d already decided my outfit and packed my bag long before D-day.  The dress I wore to visit my parents’ grave ‘glammed’ down with my denim jacket and my new pair of pointed toe stiletto ankle boots (the accompanying photo is an AI depiction of the outfit as I couldn’t be bothered with going to the faff of trying to get a decent pic in the hotel room) plus the usual collection of wig, underwear, makeup, jewelry and accessories were all carefully packed and hidden in the garage until it was finally time to set off.

It was the usual story, check into the hotel, back to the car to retrieve a quantity of bags well in excess of what a scruffy guy needs for an overnight stay and then set to work on the transformation.  And, though I say it myself, now that I’m starting to get reasonably proficient with the basics of makeup application and outfit choices, when I’d finished and walked to the mirror to check my handiwork, I don’t think I’d ever looked better.  And that’s a high that we all understand and rarely, if ever, tire of.  There’s something deeply emotional about seeing ourselves as the person we always wished we were and these days, once I know that I’m ready, I experience a real urge to break free from the security of the hotel room and be out and about.  And once again, my emergence gave a real rush.

When I booked the hotel, I realised that it was only a few minutes’ walk from the local train station and one stop away was a seaside town where I’d enjoyed a couple of family holidays as a small child.  Living in outer London, public transport is plentiful but crowded and I’ve always felt quite nervous about the idea of sitting on a crowded bus or train but there things were much quieter and it was not a case of not feeling the usual trepidation but, instead, seeing it as an opportunity to tick something else off Amanda’s list of achievements.

The station was more or less deserted when I arrived to wait for the train.  Just a woman on the other platform and a couple of young guys (for whom, at first glance, the epithet ‘ne’er do well’ would not have been out of place) trying to navigate the menus on the ticket machine.  I settled down on a bench to wait for the train but I was soon confronted by one of the aforementioned youths who asked which platform he needed for his particular destination.  Interacting with random members of the public, particular those who looked like him, was definitely not on my list of things to experience but, in my softest voice, I told him I thought it was the other platform (on the basis that there were only two platforms at the station and the trains on my side didn’t go there) and he thanked me and walked off with his mate.  And there were no sniggers or comments about the bloke in the dress; they just walked across the footbridge to the other side and waited for their train.

And I sat there and smiled to myself.  I don’t know whether my ‘ne’er do well’ assessment was unfounded and he & his friend had been well brought up after all, whether he thought I was just a slightly odd looking old woman or whether, as a member of the generation for whom gender is multifaceted, he didn’t see anything out of the ordinary but the bottom line is that even if they did have their suspicions about me, neither of them seemed to care.  And my confidence received a welcomed boost in the process!

It’s a funny thing.   Many of us yearn to hear someone call us ‘madam’ or refer to us as ‘she’ but after a number of outings, I’ve come to realise that I’m unlikely to experience that, at least in the UK where terms of endearment such as ‘mate’, ‘love’ or ‘darlin’ are more common.  But I’ve also come to understand that far more affirming is the experience of walking amongst the public and realising that no one is doing a double take or looking my way while making a comment to a companion.  I don’t want someone to feel obligated to refer to me in a certain way and just want to give the impression that there’s ‘nothing to see here’.  My pronouns are whatever you want them to be and, as for sir v madam, ‘sir’ is a statement of fact and ‘madam’ is a compliment in my book.  Or at least I thought that was the case.

As I sat in the restaurant, I felt blissfully happy.  The preceding week had been a week from hell but, for a few hours, I was able to leave all of ‘his’ problems on top of his pile of his clothes in the hotel room and be my feminine alter ego without a care in the world.  I was sitting in the open air looking out to sea and one waitress in particular had been friendly towards me.  And then it happened.  A male waiter approached my table and…

‘Your drink, sir’.

Talk about being brought down to earth with a bump!  To make matters worse, I hadn’t even ordered the drink and it was intended for a diner at another table.  Yes, ‘sir’ was a statement of fact that I always thought would be water off a duck’s back as far as I was concerned but I felt deflated.  Because what I’d never factored into the equation was that it was a statement of fact about the part of my life I’d temporarily turned my back on.  I was having too good a time to want to be reminded about who I really was.

Maybe I misheard him.  It’s entirely possible as he was as friendly and accepting as everyone else when I asked him for the bill and he returned with the card machine.  Or maybe he knew that the drink had been ordered by a regular guy and, for a split second, the connections between his eyes, brain and mouth failed him.  Or maybe, under the pleasant surface, he was a raging transphobe!  I have no way of knowing but, fortunately, it was an isolated incident and after a while, I got over it.

Once I left the restaurant, I took a short stroll before sitting down to take in the beauty of the beach and bay.  The sea was calm with just the general hubbub of life and squawking of the seagulls breaking the silence.  Oh and another encounter with a guy, this time one who was down on his luck and seeking a few pounds to buy something to eat.  In my normal life, I don’t respond to this sort of request but, in my feminine guise, I felt more compassionate. I would have given him something if I had had small change on me but, unfortunately for him, he was out of luck and once he realised that his pleas were not going to bear fruit, he went on his way.  And, like the encounter with the youth on the station proved, most people either don’t notice or don’t care who or what I am.

There was a time when spotting a largish group of guys ahead of me would have prompted a hurried dash to the other side of the road but, as I walked back to the station along the seafront and seeing such a group who had obviously had a drink or two, I decided to just look straight ahead and walk past them.  The incomprehensibility of their speech, even allowing for the fact that they were drunk, suggested that they were foreign so I had no idea what they were saying but the noise I heard one of them make as I walked away suggested that he, at least, liked what he saw!  For women who have to put up with that all the time, it must be at best tiresome and at worst intimidating or even frightening but, as a one-off, I’ll take all the affirmation I can get.

But what was to become the icing on the cake was still to happen at that point.  I got to the station 20 minutes early so settled down on a bench to wait.  As before, the station was quiet with just a young couple and one or two others waiting with me, each absorbed in their own little world.  When the train arrived, I stayed back so that the others could get on the train first; the guy from the couple pressed the button to open the door, then looked at me, smiled and beckoned me to go ahead of him and his partner.  And I thought chivalry and particularly ‘ladies first’ had long since died out. 

And with a high like that to top off my evening, I don’t want to finish on a downer.  We all know the sense of deflation we feel as the inner woman’s possessions are packed away and the last vestiges of her existence are expunged with a makeup wipe so no need to elaborate further.  I’d far rather dwell on the warm feelings I experienced when treated not just as a woman, but as a lady, by the guy on the train – warm feelings that still persist several weeks on when I think back to that evening.

Life is full of highs and lows and even though most of us feel far more highs when in our feminine persona, they have to be put into perspective.  I’m well aware that the reason I feel so good when expressing my feminine side is that I can leave my other life problems behind for a few hours.  If I decided to make the change permanent, then ‘his’ problems would become ‘hers’.  I’m also well aware that even though Amandatime is full of highs, it’s not a foregone conclusion that it will be exclusively a high.  On balance, I tend to think that I misheard the waiter who I thought called me ‘sir’ but whatever the truth, it felt pretty bad at the time.  And suppose the youth on the station asking which platform to take had conformed to the initial impression I had of him?  With few people other than his companion on the station, I would have been on my own if things had turned nasty.  And the foreign guys on the way back?  A bit of playful jostling or harassment may have been fun to them in their inebriated state but frightening for me.

But, as usual, I’m overthinking things.  The vast majority of people we encounter are decent and, providing we show respect, will return it to us as individuals even if they have concerns surrounding aspects of trans ideology in general.  The highs I experienced on that day were, in many respects, trivial.  A guy asked me for directions and another asked me for money and neither batted an eyelid during our interactions.  So what? A waitress was as pleasant to me as she undoubtedly was to all of the other patrons that night.  So what? A guy in a group seemed to voice his approval as I walked past.  So what?  Another guy thought I was worthy of getting on the train before him even though he was much nearer the door than I was.  So what?

At a fundamental level, the point here is that before we take our first steps into the outside world, we fret endlessly about ‘passing’ and quite possibly ‘chicken out’ on the first couple of attempts.  Even when we can walk confidently through a crowd, we’re terrified that our voice will give us away as soon as we open our mouth (bad news, it almost certainly will!!) and we still breathe a sigh of relief when we’re back in the safe surroundings of our car, house or hotel room.  But the truth is that each of those little highs, and the countless others that we experience in our feminine lives, chip away at our doubts until the monumental day comes when, rather than letting our doubts rule us, we crave those little highs and actively seek them.  And whilst being invited to get on a train ahead of another passenger is hardly something to write home about, I felt on top of the world and smiled all the way back to the hotel when it happened.

And it’s those little things that make all of this worthwhile.  Of course, I crave for more overt signs of acceptance – perhaps a random stranger complimenting my outfit and asking where I bought it, being engaged in woman to woman conversation by another, not because of who I am but despite who I am, or perhaps being offered a seat by another gentleman (not that I’m holding my breath that I’ll encounter more than one in my feminine lifetime!) – but it’s the little seemingly insignificant ones that add up to something quite special.  And that special thing isn’t a smug feeling that I ‘pass’ or anything like that; it’s just the knowledge that it’s OK to be me and that others respect me for that.

And even if the encounter with Mr. ‘Ladies First’ on the station platform was the last of those little highs I’ll ever receive, it’ll keep me going for the rest of my life.