Ed. For fashionably latecomers, this post is the conclusion of the story commenced in “The Other Woman” just a few days ago.
After saying "see you a little later" to the true beauty of my home the other night, I slid into the car and headed out into the night. Driving en femme is always special of course – adjusting to the feel of heels on the pedals, the electric touch of tights on more closed legs, elbows in, arms held just lower, the seatbelt seated differently across the augmented bust.
And O, yeah, the hair blown errantly and adhering to ones newly glossed lips. I love the challenges, but honestly they sometimes stack up too fast and furious. All happiness at a price I suppose.
In any event, I was off to meet with an unknown number of card and purse carrying CD/TG guild members at a nearby gay bar welcoming of all-sorts. Mrs. Bellejambes did volunteer to come along with me but, not really knowing the crowd, I thought it prudent to do my reconnaissance as a solo mission. It is important to me that each threshold we cross together is done well, and that we avoid mis-steps along the way as much as possible. I took a few minutes to browse cosmetics at a Walgreens in order to get my hips operating correctly, bring the heart rate down a small scooch and etc., took a couple of deep breaths and strode into the smoky confines of The Stage Door.
It was pretty easy to spot my sorority, front and center at the bar, as they are. I said hello to Heather, the outreach director for Atlanta’s Tri-Ess CD support group, and Rebecca, full-timer and bravely transitioning girl in town from the reddest county in a very red state. A few other introductions, Joanne in a pretty red dress with her loving wife, Cindy, Nikki with the 6” black pumps, and exchanges of hello’s with a few others whose faces I remember but whose names elude me mostly. I have a pretty easy way with conversation but am hopeless with names dear friends.
Heather had to call it an early night, but took the time to ensure that I knew that Mrs. B and myself were most welcomed to lean on Tri-Ess for whatever support and fellowship we want, and I must say that that is a nice coupon to have in the purse for the right time. Bless you Heather.
I am happy to report that the evening was about as normal as nights out get. I shot a little inept pool with Leslie, she of the complexion of a 40 year old who confessed to being a grandparent of 9, social security eligible, and a mere 4 years into fully womanly life after tackling GRS in her late 50’s. Her pool is less inept than mine, with a rather intimidating display of bank shots, massées and décolletage which she unleashed to easily kick my amply padded butt around the table.
It was a relief, after that crushing defeat, then to talk about high availability, mission critical EDI and other computing matters with Joanne. The IT business would be so much more sexy if all the part time geek girls could dress without career consequence it seems to me.
Demographically, the crowd tilted a little silver. Even in my late 40’s I was at the young end of the spectrum. No real surprises or issues with that to me – just an observation. I suppose that many of us are capable of putting up a pretty good fight, and forestalling the embrace of the truth until we hit some level of maturity that can only come with experience, and for me, lots of it.
Some of the hi-jinx did go a little to the young and green side of the age continuum, too young at moments for my tastes. There was a certain amount of flashing and friendly feels copped here and there (not by me, or of me thankfully). I am fully with St. John Lennon in believing “whatever gets you through the night, it’s all right, its all right”, but I am a bit of a reserved prude, at least about my own comportment. Its not that I have inhibitions so much as I just don’t get all tingly about exhibitions. The universe however says Ohmmmmm, and I try my best to hum along.
I took my leave before being tempted by the cocktail of no return with warm hugs, light handshakes and happily, no high-fives, to arrive quietly at home a little after mid-night. I was reminded of an old girlfriends complaints about smoky places (my own apartment I think, back then). Women with long hair are Vapor Velcro. Even with my own retarded sense of smell, I could tell I was a tad rank, which takes some of the gloss off a ground breaking night.
There is the slow, mindful and decorous unbuttoning and hanging of garments, the doffing of shoes and wig, the careful peeling of nails and lashes, and the good scrub of the old mug. Sad moments, or perhaps not sad, just a little wistful. And privileged moments too. And then, there in the mirror blinking back at you, yourself thinking … “where did that woman go...?”
Well, she went home. To climb quietly into a warm and slumbering bed.