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8:18 a.m. - Tuesday, Jul. 30, 2002
Ms Leslie Meets Another TS
I met another local transsexual the other day. I guess.

Sandy asked me if she could give this person my name and address. She had been getting electrolysis years ago and then suddenly stopped. Now she�s back, at age fifty seven, and wanting to proceed with her transition. Ever Miss Helpful, I said, �sure�. So within two days, I got a call from the new person� Wendy.

Wendy doesn�t own a computer and has no contacts in the area who can help her address her gender issues. I agreed to let her come to my home where I would show her some of the information that�s available on the internet and to give her the name of my prescribing physician, who may be willing to evaluate her for hormone therapy.

Now� please forgive me� I�m going to sound catty.

A couple of days later I answered the knock on the door, only to discover a six-foot two shipyard worker with arms and hands big enough and strong enough to pinch off my head with ease. �She� had long since lost contact with her dentist� as well as several of her front teeth, and was wearing the basic uniform of a working class male� Levi�s, polo shirt, and a pair of men�s size thirteen work boots. The only concession she made to her inner femininity was the addition on top of her unfortunately smooth scalp of a ratty, long gray, synthetic wig. I spent an incredibly long afternoon chatting with her and getting to know enough about her to realize that I probably made a mistake when I allowed her to know where I live.

It�s not her fault. It�s me. I have no right at all to sit in judgement of anyone.. much less an obvious male who claims to feel female. But I guess I do have the right to dislike someone, and I�m sorry to say I disliked her. I was uncomfortable with her. She sat splayed out like a man, picking her nose and talking non-stop about such fascinating subjects as the recently rebuilt rear end on her dodge truck, the soon-to-be-installed rebuilt alternator for her car, the vagaries of working as a shipbuilder, and just a thousand other subjects that were just punishingly boring to me� not to mention having very much nothing to do with my world.

Bottom line? I wasn�t able to put my own prejudices aside and relate to her on any level at all as a woman. Not that she made much of an effort to make it easy for me, but still, I�m supposed to be one of the enlightened ones, aren�t I?

And then there is a line beneath the bottom line, and that�s the line that really bothers me.

Looking at Wendy was like looking in a mirror. It�s started me on a whole new round of self-doubt. I see myself as female on the inside. Increasingly, I see myself as female on the outside too. But am I kidding myself? Am I in all actuality just a shorter image of this shipyard worker? I can�t help wondering all over again if people around me are just being accommodating; telling me what they know I want to hear. I fear that they�re all liars and that the only truth is the truth I see in Wendy�s face. And so here I am back at square two again. Uncertain about myself, fighting the craving for nicotene that�s still wired into every cell of my body, fighting to lose the weight I desperately need to lose if I want to salvage this trip to Thailand, and fighting to see myself the way I insist I really am�. And all the time feeling like it�s just not possible. I just can�t seem to find the right direction to turn to make this easier� or even do-able.

No wonder pizza tastes so good.

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