A Woman’s Work Is Never Fun

Accidentally skipped last week. It was the anniversary of my Mum’s terminal diagnosis so my head was elsewhere. It was a day that’s hard to forget, that carried news which felt like having your chair kicked out from under you. The worst kind of universal prank.

Already a year on and she’s nearly been gone three months. Which is still entirely surreal. I cannot count the number of times I want to tell her something, particularly bound by the urge to call her. Sadly, long distance doesn’t go that far.

I’ve just realised I’m halfway through this and have hijacked my own post. It’s not actually supposed to be about feeling sad or missing someone. Quite the opposite. It was meant to be about taking the first steps to pulling things back together. Because it’s just time to do that.

Work!

Candlelit vigils do not pay the bills however. And like it or not, short of her celestial intervention, I’m unlikely to win the lottery any time soon. I’m willing to meet her halfway and buy a ticket though, just in case. But I am now going back to work. Because I need to.

Not strictly for financial reasons if I’m honest. It’s more about purpose and routine. Two things which largely evaporated since her death. But also two things that will bring the structure needed to move on with my own life. Naturally I’m feeling both apprehensive and excited to start working again. And although fifteen months has been a long enough time in limbo, I have still allowed myself a week of freedom left to build up to it. But then it’s… Stop the world, I want to get on!

Pleasant Phucker

Forging ahead with 2019 and my first really proper weekend post of the year. We’ve not had a totally TMI post for a while I realise. So Fuck It, in the spirit of starting over and complete honesty, today is about the last mistake of and the lasting legacy so far of 2018. Luckily they are one and the same.

I suppose the worst thing about this tale is that I can’t even blame alcohol or evil external influences for today’s insight into how my head works. So it’s, most assuredly, just a post about an entire disaster of my own making. Which simply started with a casual “I wonder” on New Year’s Eve.

Smarter people obviously must wonder about smarter things but at slightly over a year Post Op and having been pretty scared to touch it, I sort of wondered if I should maybe do something about my lady garden before celebrating the bells. Really allowing myself to buy into the whole New Year, New Me thing as it were. So I stopped wondering and off we went. I considered it a perfectly rational idea at the time.

New Year, New Meow

What it was, however, was utter fucking folly! Not sure exactly how I thought it was going to go. But a glamorous expedition it was not. It’s a damningly difficult thing to navigate with a razor. Like the shifting sands of the Sahara. Only considerably fleshier and resonating with clear and present danger.

It’s also one of these things that you need to see through to the end once you’re underway. No half measures. Originally, my worst case scenario had been ending up with something resembling a plucked pheasant, but unfortunately the result was infinitely worse. More like a patchy pigeon which had barely survived a brutal altercation with a feral cat. A lesson learned as they say. Turns out there is a reason for discreet professional services for ladies. And this should really all be covered in the manual. As if they fucking hand you one.

Bit late for tearful regrets now though. So trying to stay positive about it. Came into 2019 feeling like a freshly minted woman. Obviously learned something I didn’t but possibly should have known. Once bitten, twice shy etc. And now I’m cautiously confident that, if I can survive the slow stubbly recovery ahead, I have 2019 beat already. In other news, there’s a sackful of disposable razors I’m not ever going to need again. Help yourself 😉

Cinq

Five years ago today (yesterday was the technical date), I was leaving for work for the first time as a female. And I was pretty much absolutely terrified.

With good reason perhaps. I was so scared of everything I could possibly stand to lose. So much so, that I barely realised everything I stood to gain.

But reaching a five year anniversary is just quite a satisfying milestone for me. However difficult it was at various times, I regret little about the journey. And nothing about getting to my destination. So it all started on precisely such an innocuous Monday as today. Just by putting a foot over the door and starting out. I’m quite proud of the Me that managed that. Braver then than I feel today.

I’m in a happy little place all things taken into account though and not at all scared about what this year brings. If you are considering doing something, like a new job or a house move or even a sex change, all I can suggest is just take a step in a direction. The journey works out it’s own route. But it always starts with putting one foot forward.

Mistress Of All I Survey

Happy New Year firstly. Despite myself, I’m sort of looking forward to setting sail on 2019. I’m even going to risk saying it can’t be as bad as 2018. It matters not, I’m ready for anything it has to throw my way. Like a coiled spring. Or a slightly “Post Christmas Podge” ninja.

I don’t have any spectacular resolutions except those carried over relentlessly from 2014 and the start of my transition. I strongly suspect that 2019 will still not be the year I master eye makeup though. I’d have to try and I just don’t see that in my immediate future.

I have bigger fish to fry. Like maybe getting this thing back on track as a transition blog. Or finally finding my On button. Or working my way towards the last surgery I plan on having. Which is simply a boob job. Probably don’t need one to be OK medically speaking. But it will be the end of everything I started five years ago. And enough for me to feel finished. And the last day of 2018 delivered me my first appointment with Plastic Surgery early in January. Too little, too late 2018. You still sucked.

Throughout this blog “There is always tomorrow” has been my Go To mantra.  It’s really just an ode to Procrastination, although I’ve certainly found it comforting at times. But although I’m already fully enjoying that “pregnant with possibilities” sense that a new year brings, realistically, we all know it won’t last. It might just be enough to get me safely through January. The plan is to have a plan by then. “There is always tomorrow” rides again.