See Me

When my girls were school-age I was the mama-taxi.
Long trips seemed to be my specialty.
Not just because driving was novel to me
(I learned when I was 30… long story),
but because they needed to go to places that were some distance away
and I was the only parent willing to do the trip (longer story).

Trips with preteens generally lead to long silences
punctuated by squabbling.
These circumstances lead to one of the Three Rules of Mom:

1. No ‘she said/she said’
2. No wet noises (later diagnosed as Mom’s misophonia)
3. Do what you have to do before you do what you want to do

To protect us all from the END of PEACE as we KNOW IT I would provide diversions.
One long winter drive to my parents that meant listening to
Christopher Plummer read the Nutcracker.
Delightedly scared cries were heard whenever he drew out the ‘SQEEEEEEEEEAAAKKKK’ of the Mouse King.
Other times it was singing songs.
And still other times they asked for stories.
(Later I came to realize this was self-protection for them.
If I wasn’t telling them stories I might ask them questions.
Which could lead to sharing.
Or discussion about puberty.
So stories it would be.)

In general the stories were well-known to us all,
as family stories tend to be.
They would ask me to ‘tell us the one about….’
and off we would go.

This scenario would later be repeated by the folks at work.
It seemed that either crazy stuff just naturally happens to me,
or I have a crazy way at looking at normal stuff.
Perhaps that’s same-same.
I didn’t… and still don’t
mind sharing stories.
If I chuckle at myself, well it makes it easier to accept and move on.
(True story: today I managed to put my suede boots on the wrong feet.
I am a grown woman and didn’t notice it when the first boot went on.
Only noticed when I stood.
And I was stone cold sober.
Both. Boots. Wrong. Feet.)
If you ask, it’s likely I’ll share most things if you really want to listen.
If it’s my story to tell.

I am also good at keeping secrets.
(You should know all of things that I won’t tell you)
I don’t believe that it’s my destiny to pass along the news that belong to others.
A person may only have so many amazing stories in their life, they should be able to choose how and when they share them.
So there are some stories I just won’t tell.
And there are some I never thought I would tell.
This post is something I have asked and received permission to tell.
But I’m nervous… so I’m stalling.

You see, not a lot of people know this story.
But due to recent events I will share, because it is true no matter what some people may want to say about it.

I was divorced after 24 years of marriage.
I had no idea how to date, or laugh, or trust again.
And I was fortunate to meet a kind, funny, attentive man.
He made me laugh.
Told me I was smart, kind, beautiful, talented.
Not overstating that we made each other very happy,
and neither of us had been happy for a while.
Me because my marriage was falling apart because my husband didn’t want to be married to me.
His was falling apart, because his wife couldn’t accept that he had gender dysphoria.
I had no idea what that meant… except it sounded like he didn’t like being a guy.
I wasn’t always stoked about being a woman… especially every 23 days or so.
I didn’t think much about it; life was kind of crazy.
My friends called him Bounceback Guy.
They told me no one stays with Bounceback Guy.
Well, neither did I, but not for the reasons they thought.

We each moved to different states but talked to each other every day and saw each other as often as we could.
Our relationship grew solidly on friendship, and laughter, and love.
Bounceback or not.
I trusted someone again.
As we grew more secure and comfortable with each other,
more information was shared.
Gender dysphoria discussions lead to deeper talks.
lead to him sharing that he was not really,
not truly,
not deep down inside
‘he’.
She was Aimee.
And my world rocked out of kilter.
Okay.
OK.
What did that mean for us?
What have I done?
What will I do?
(And dear heavens why do I pick the wrong guy? AGAIN!)

So.
Tears, and are-you-sure?- and but-I-liked-Him, and
OK, YOU are the same personality, but you are going to kill my boyfriend
(I wince to write that, but truth is truth and that’s how it felt to me)>
There was no Caitlyn Jenner.
Heck, there was only the lady with the large hands that had shopped at the bookstore a few times.
I didn’t know from transgender.
I wanted easy and steady and uncomplicated.
Not 700+ miles away, and hormone treatments, and does this mean I’m a lesbian?
Why does YOU making a change mean I need to make a change?
I’m not looking for that.
It was too much.
Distance didn’t help.
The bounce,
which had been fading (being honest here) from loving partnership to loving friends anyways,
was not going to survive.
And, truth be told- I was the one still trying to figure out what to do….
and I got dumped.
Awkwardly,
and hurtfully,
and tears,
and no,
I’m not with her because she is younger and prettier than you are,
it’s-for-the-best-we-can-be-friends.
And it hurt.
And I didn’t believe I was hearing the truth..
(and I was right:
the next woman was young, prettier… and a flippin’ belly dancer.
How could I ever think I could compete with a red-haired belly dancer ten years my junior… even if I’d wanted to.
And I didn’t want to.
And I was spared the need to say that.
Instead I could focus on the lies and cry and nurse my pride.)

But I NEVER thought there was a lie about being Aimee.
And I never doubted that a difficult decision,
even if it was one I hoped wouldn’t be made,
couldn’t understand the need to be made,
was the right one for them to make.

So now,
now when the news is about a move to declare that Aimee,
and other transgendered,
or nonbinary,
or intersexed people don’t get to make the choice to present themselves in the way that is correct for them;
when there is a plan to state that they don’t exist:
now is the time for me to tell my story.

I’ve met her.
She’s funny,
likes Star Wars and (help me, HOW?) Monty Python.
Favorite color is purple.
She’s happily married now to a woman that loves her just as she is.
Aimee is dearly loved.

And isn’t that what we all want in our lives?
To be loved for who we are?
To have our truths validated?
To be our very best self, and contribute to the world around us?
To be seen.

I’m asking you, see; don’t look away.

(This post is part of the #Write31Days challenge.)

 

 

 

Match

After 24 years of marriage I found myself alone and perplexed at the very thought of dating.

No way.
I hadn’t dated since I was 19 years old.
Where does an adult go on a date?
What would I wear?
Talk about?

It’s also a matter of
(was it Groucho Marx that didn’t want to belong to a club if it would admit him as a member? their standards would be too low?)
what’s wrong with someone my age that they aren’t married?

Well- I did date.
He was much more than ‘Bounceback Guy’.
He made me laugh and laugh.
And I felt pretty.
And like someone would want to be with me again.
Like maybe I wasn’t discarded.
Maybe I still had something of value.
Maybe I could be interesting.

But Non-BBG and I broke up.
long distance relationships….
he was 10 years younger than me…..
we had very different ideas of where we were going.
of who we wanted to be…
of how we saw ourselves.

And I was alone again.
Not just alone.
I was lonely.
The cry yourself dry kind of lonely.
The ‘Gee- I wonder if there’s a service where people come and hold you so you can sleep’ Lonely.
(Now wait. I understand that there is indeed a service where you pay people to hold you. I was thinking warm but platonic. not escort and sweaty.)

Then two good friends told me over the span of a few days- they had a brilliant idea.

One friend told me that
if I put the time into my personal life that I did to work- I wouldn’t be alone.
Another friend told me to get myself on Match.com and get me a man.
She’d done it.
She was happy.
I, too, could be happy.
(And not fantasizing of strangers holding me while I slept.)

So, I bought myself a body pillow
(They are long and cocoon-like, and stretch out next to you while you sleep.
Not ideal- but safer than Snuggles-for-Hire)
and wrote me a Match.com profile.

It was long.
It mentioned shoes.
Had a picture of my (ex-husband’s) dog.
A photo of my daughters.
Said I wasn’t into sports.
Said I liked to be on time.
Revealed that I loathe the feel of fluffy cotton in pills bottles.
I broke every rule.
I gushed.
Was chatty.
Got off topic.
Was totally me…..then hit publish.

Woke up the next day to (if it had existed then) Pinterest for Daters.
Thumbnail photos of men that were matched to be compatible to me.
I could just click and send them a wink and a message.
So – I went shopping.
I clicked and winked.
Sorted and pasted.
Emailed and talked.
HAD a BLAST!

A man asked me, within 5 minutes of meeting me,  if my eyes were real, and if I’ve ever wanted to be cremated.
(I told him, in order, Yes, and No, not anytime soon.)
He then asked if I was hungry, suggested a flatbread at Panera’s, and pulled out a 2-1 coupon.
Which would pay, he said, for his half since we would split the bill.
Creepy guy pulled me into a goodbye guess when I said goodbye.
Ugh.

I met the man I will call Drunk-Dialing-Guy.
He was sweet, told me I reminded him of his ex.
Explained that she’d slept with his friend…. then gave him herpes before leaving.
(This had not been on his profile.)
Discouraged at my polite but firm decision not to meet again, he took to calling me.
At night.
When the bars closed.
As his friends drove him home.
Crying in the back seat.

Undeterred, I persisted with the clicking.
And responding, since I got a lot of winks myself.

Then, not long after my daughter told me her idea of my perfect match was
a “Hippie-Brawny-Guy-in a Red-Plaid Shirt”
I saw a thumbnail photo that stopped me cold.
He had a mustache, glasses, was wearing a floppy bucket hat, and smiling at the photographer.
Right at me.
(I could tell.)
He looked kind.
He looked happy.
I wanted to see that smile in person.
So I winked.

He was a student- returned to school and remaking his life.
He loved the outdoors.
Hunting.
He laughed at my stories.
Read my entire (!!!!) profile and still wanted to talk to me.
I told my daughter that I was going to meet someone, right after he finished his finals.
Finals?
I told her he was an architecture student and before I could continue she said
“A student! MOM! Your last boyfriend was 10 years younger than you- now you’re dating students?!”
Not that I thought I needed to, but I explained that I was the younger one this time, thank you.

He took me to see/listen to Handel’s Messiah on out first date.
No talk of cremation or herpes, so that was a plus.
He was kind and funny and looked as nervous as I felt.
We talked and talked.
(He describes it as “The Interview”. Whatever.)

He listens to ALL MY MANY WORDS!
He explains sports to me.
We hold hands when we go out.
He cooks dinner and tells me to drink more water and get more sleep.
I find his keys… and work gloves… and nag him to turn off lights.
We both like Marvel Agents of Shield.

My thanks go to Lori and Dee for pointing me in the right direction.

It’s been 10 years.
I get to see his smile every day.

The cats sleep on the body pillow.
Outside.
In the breezeway.
I don’t need it anymore.

(This post is part of the 31 Days of Writing Challenge.)