LJI Exhibit B: Week 5: It's Not Tacky if You Wear it Well
Another non-fiction piece from me this week. This one is a lot lighter in tone than the last.
Ugh, how do I woman?
You don’t realize just how little you know about dressing like and being a woman until your spouse begins transitioning from male to female.
Or well, I knew. Trust me, I don’t walk around at home in baggy pants and a loose t-shirt with my hair pulled up in a sloppy ponytail just because it’s comfortable. I have no desire to look like a Trophy Wife -- I met plenty of those in North Carolina and would much rather not be associated with them in any way.
So I don’t own make-up. Who cares? I don’t have the time to spend in front of the mirror, painting my face and trying to make it look less like the mother of a three year old who thinks 5am is a suitable wake-up time. Sure, a little concealer could go a long way for those ever deepening bags under my eyes, but eh. Do I really care? Not really. As long as my hair isn’t frizzing out -- as long as my clothes are clean and fit me (reasonably) well, I’m good.
Except my wife -- well, she wants to wear skirts and dresses and make-up and carry a purse and I just -- look, I bought a cute little black bag with owls on it because I thought that maybe, just maybe, I would use it. Because it’s cute. It’s simple. It’s small.
Nope.
It sits on my kitchen counter, the owls staring at me forlornly as I use it as storage space. When I leave, I grab my keys, my cash, my cards, and I shove them into my pockets and go. Why carry anything extra? It boggles the mind.
Clearly, I am not the person to ask for any female fashion advice. Or make-up advice. Or anything vaguely related to being female. I don’t even shave my fucking legs. Too much work! I have a lot of leg with a lot of hair, and I just don’t have the patience for that shit.
So when it rained during our quiet two days at the beach -- the same beach that was far away from our house filled with three other adults and one toddler, we decided maybe, just maybe, we could attempt to buy her a set of clothes or two better suited for her gender. Because, y’know, if she’s gonna be living as the woman she’s always been, she kinda needs some clothes.
We pull up in front of the slowly-gaining-business strip mall, and for a moment, I panic. I know nothing about female fashion. Nothing. N-O-T-H-I-N-G. Evelyn is nervous, the crowds slowly growing to be too much for her on an average day (PTSD’s a bitch), and we’re going to be buying clothes. For her.
Take in a deep breath, Alicia. She wants to buy clothes. Just clothes. You can do this. You can help her. You want to help her. With that thought, I reach for her hand and give it a light squeeze, all before we slip out of the car and head inside.
The store’s, thankfully, hardly filled with people. Still early yet for beach goers at just before noon. Good. I can talk and direct her to things I think she might look good in without the fear that I might be overheard. Baby-steps. She hasn’t yet gotten comfortable with the idea of presenting as female outside of the house, so I know she doesn’t want me to draw attention to her in public.
“You want dresses, right?” I ask. She nods.
Okay then. Dresses. Skirts. Things I constantly complain are the devil. Got it. I can do this. I can find things that’ll fit her well and make her look and feel feminine. I can do this.
And somewhere, in the dark recesses of my mind, my inner girly-girl starts to talk. Every tiny bit of information I’ve gathered through osmosis on how to dress to one’s particular body shape starts to dribble out of my mouth like I’ve always known this shit all along and just consciously chose never to act on it.
I think it surprised her. Actually, I don’t think she trusted anything I had to say. The way she would quirk her eyebrow or tilt her head whenever I pointed out something she might like and might also look good in didn’t exactly resemble confidence.
But hey, she listened. She even trusted me on what sizes to buy! Score! After all, women’s sizing conventions make no sense to her, what with wearing men’s clothes her whole life. Never mind that women’s clothing sizes are also the Devil and aren’t uniform across brands. Welcome to clothes shopping, babe! It’s this confusing for those of us lucky enough to be doing this all our lives, too.
So we buy the two dresses. Of course, she pays (she has the money, after all), but I’m the one who gets to hold them when we go up to the counter. I’m the one who gets to carry them out the store. And the whole time, I’m like “Ewwwww, girls clothes!”
Back at the hotel room, she tries them on. And, well...
They look great on her. While she’s not happy with her shoulders with the strapless dress in particular, a shawl or a light jacket will solve that issue no problem. And the other dress? Well, it’s a little shorter than I anticipated, but her legs look amazing in it, and it definitely shows off the right amount of curves, too. Despite her current sorta-lack of boob, too, because I kept those in mind.
Looks like I know how to woman, after all.
Ugh, how do I woman?
You don’t realize just how little you know about dressing like and being a woman until your spouse begins transitioning from male to female.
Or well, I knew. Trust me, I don’t walk around at home in baggy pants and a loose t-shirt with my hair pulled up in a sloppy ponytail just because it’s comfortable. I have no desire to look like a Trophy Wife -- I met plenty of those in North Carolina and would much rather not be associated with them in any way.
So I don’t own make-up. Who cares? I don’t have the time to spend in front of the mirror, painting my face and trying to make it look less like the mother of a three year old who thinks 5am is a suitable wake-up time. Sure, a little concealer could go a long way for those ever deepening bags under my eyes, but eh. Do I really care? Not really. As long as my hair isn’t frizzing out -- as long as my clothes are clean and fit me (reasonably) well, I’m good.
Except my wife -- well, she wants to wear skirts and dresses and make-up and carry a purse and I just -- look, I bought a cute little black bag with owls on it because I thought that maybe, just maybe, I would use it. Because it’s cute. It’s simple. It’s small.
Nope.
It sits on my kitchen counter, the owls staring at me forlornly as I use it as storage space. When I leave, I grab my keys, my cash, my cards, and I shove them into my pockets and go. Why carry anything extra? It boggles the mind.
Clearly, I am not the person to ask for any female fashion advice. Or make-up advice. Or anything vaguely related to being female. I don’t even shave my fucking legs. Too much work! I have a lot of leg with a lot of hair, and I just don’t have the patience for that shit.
So when it rained during our quiet two days at the beach -- the same beach that was far away from our house filled with three other adults and one toddler, we decided maybe, just maybe, we could attempt to buy her a set of clothes or two better suited for her gender. Because, y’know, if she’s gonna be living as the woman she’s always been, she kinda needs some clothes.
We pull up in front of the slowly-gaining-business strip mall, and for a moment, I panic. I know nothing about female fashion. Nothing. N-O-T-H-I-N-G. Evelyn is nervous, the crowds slowly growing to be too much for her on an average day (PTSD’s a bitch), and we’re going to be buying clothes. For her.
Take in a deep breath, Alicia. She wants to buy clothes. Just clothes. You can do this. You can help her. You want to help her. With that thought, I reach for her hand and give it a light squeeze, all before we slip out of the car and head inside.
The store’s, thankfully, hardly filled with people. Still early yet for beach goers at just before noon. Good. I can talk and direct her to things I think she might look good in without the fear that I might be overheard. Baby-steps. She hasn’t yet gotten comfortable with the idea of presenting as female outside of the house, so I know she doesn’t want me to draw attention to her in public.
“You want dresses, right?” I ask. She nods.
Okay then. Dresses. Skirts. Things I constantly complain are the devil. Got it. I can do this. I can find things that’ll fit her well and make her look and feel feminine. I can do this.
And somewhere, in the dark recesses of my mind, my inner girly-girl starts to talk. Every tiny bit of information I’ve gathered through osmosis on how to dress to one’s particular body shape starts to dribble out of my mouth like I’ve always known this shit all along and just consciously chose never to act on it.
I think it surprised her. Actually, I don’t think she trusted anything I had to say. The way she would quirk her eyebrow or tilt her head whenever I pointed out something she might like and might also look good in didn’t exactly resemble confidence.
But hey, she listened. She even trusted me on what sizes to buy! Score! After all, women’s sizing conventions make no sense to her, what with wearing men’s clothes her whole life. Never mind that women’s clothing sizes are also the Devil and aren’t uniform across brands. Welcome to clothes shopping, babe! It’s this confusing for those of us lucky enough to be doing this all our lives, too.
So we buy the two dresses. Of course, she pays (she has the money, after all), but I’m the one who gets to hold them when we go up to the counter. I’m the one who gets to carry them out the store. And the whole time, I’m like “Ewwwww, girls clothes!”
Back at the hotel room, she tries them on. And, well...
They look great on her. While she’s not happy with her shoulders with the strapless dress in particular, a shawl or a light jacket will solve that issue no problem. And the other dress? Well, it’s a little shorter than I anticipated, but her legs look amazing in it, and it definitely shows off the right amount of curves, too. Despite her current sorta-lack of boob, too, because I kept those in mind.
Looks like I know how to woman, after all.