Enlivened as I have been by a recent flurry of correspondence and some long overdue quality time spent on precious and dearly missed blogs I am newly pondering a couple of questions:
Just what do you make of a Cross Dresser who is neither cross or dressing?
Just what do you make of a Blogger without a post to lean on?
Perhaps an answer will emerge an uncharted paragraph or two south hereof, but the contours our findings are not yet in sharp enough relief to provide any certainty. Certainty is a little dull for my tastes though, and usually illusory too, so join me, my dears, for a random romp through things in general.
Let us start with the whole blogging bit. Many of us, bloggers of allsorts, view this labor as therapeutic. Therapy is intended to attain happy conclusions at some point. If not, perhaps the analysand is working with the wrong analyst. There must come a moment when the patient and physician look at each other a little blankly, declare victory and move a little awkwardly on.
Voyages en Rose managed to keep lively for a little more than two years which, as I look at the ebb and flow of blogs I follow, seems like a median life expectancy. For me, late last year I found neurons not alight and fingers hesitant at the keyboard. Seams of thought formerly rich with gems of observation and sensation yielded poorly, more gravel and less gold. Been there, done that made gains on the delight and delirium of discovery.
What I have written and posted here is a very real treasure for me, and, in its way, a complete one. I am happy to say therefore that I do not feel a duty to add to the blog. Relieved in fact. It has taken quite a while and a lot of distraction to become happily indifferent to my traffic statistics, and accustomed to an absence of life giving comments from dear readers. But I have.
I do miss the achievement of writing though. Much of this I put down to what has been for me a big discovery about the nature of time and task in a corporate setting. My new work requires parallel attention to multiples of concerns where before I was processing things in a more or less serial manner. I find that this fatigues the mind, or at least draws down the reserves of creativity I employed to fuel fits of productivity here.
This is an unexpected thing. Still, I am happy with the trade-off, comforted by the knowledge that I can and will at some point willingly (or otherwise, frog-marched out of the building with a cardboard box in hand) go back to my old lifestyle with the bank account fattened enough for autumns and winters of hoped-for decades of graceful aging and indulgent prosing.
So, happy as opposed to cross. Good outcome.
Now, about the dressing. Nothing conclusive really. It warms up early here in the heart of Dixie. Shorts are a required element of the masculine wardrobe. I am not a competitive Triathlete and therefore have no easy peg to hang clean shaven legs on. To paraphrase Sir Elton, the thatch is back. Bit of a fashion buzz kill I think we can all agree. Yes, I could go with slacks and a blousy top, but the trowelling of concealer shows much like pine pollen on parked cars in the warmth here. Summer’s heat cools my ardor quite typically, and this year is no different. Just a little more pronounced. This absence of urge to dress does not surprise me greatly.
I did work from home one day this week though, and spent a few hours in a favorite dress. This felt wonderful. Nicely natural, all the pleasant, special differences of feel and movement and appearance. Visitors here of the full time female variety know this to be true: It is a treat to wear a pretty dress. To stand a little taller in well made shoes. Everyone else who visits here knows this too I presume. As for people who don’t share our enthusiasms, well, I simply don’t know what they are not thinking.
To each of us our own delights I suppose. Perhaps time away from our delights makes them all the more flavorful when we taste them again. For me, I suspect that I will belly up to the style buffet again at the Southern Comfort Conference in September here in Atlanta. Perhaps we will meet there.
Here, Chez Bellejambes we will be hosting house guests soon. This will necessitate a certain amount of shifting of garments from guest room closets to the dark and lonely confines of the attic. There are hues and silhouettes in my wardrobe from precincts miles away from Mrs. Bellejambes' style sweet spots. Best to get them out of sight, if not entirely out of mind.
Which brings me to matters of the mind, where I will leave off for now. I will want to share with you some observations on just how the periodic transformations of my exteriors have more permanently transformed the workings of my interiors. This is a big topic that I feel deserves its own dedicated and well lit runway. I promise to lean into that post over the next week or two.
I will sign off today with genuine affection for and thanks to you, dear reader for your time here today, and in the past. Today, somewhere, elsewhere, somebody is freshly committed to giving their gender journey a name, a URL, and the sweat of their pretty brow. There is a gifted voice writing fresh and compelling stuff to dazzle and cheer the likes of we. Go find those new gems. Drop me a line when you spot one, would you?
Affectionately and thankfully yours,