Talking for Granted

I'm in the big smoke again. Two meetings on consecutive days meant that a hotel room was booked for me so here I am alone with my laptop and telly for company, not wanting to mess up the huge pristine bed that begs for 2 lovers to share, but is stuck with a restless singleton. So what do I do with my night in the big city. Take in a show, sample the night life? No I am,  therefore I blog.

7 am this crisp bright morning, stood on the platform at Stoke, I had a moment of stark realisation. A moment of clarity and perspective. A slap round the face.
I was standing on the a train platform dressed in a knee length brown skirt, black boots and a long dogtooth winter coat (yes I had other stuff, but didn't want to ruin the flow (durrrr these endless parenthesis do that anyway). I was standing dressed as,, no! not just dressed, I actually am a woman, in full morning public glare, yet no one gave me a moments notice. I was accepted by my fellow travellers as just another commuting woman, even a bit dull and workaday. I was being the me I always wanted, but I was hardly noticing. My inner voice mouthed, "OMG (Oh My God), look at me. I have done it. I am doing it. I have made it and its brilliant!!!"

I have spent the largest chunk of my 40 years yearning to live like this, without ever thinking it could realistically happen. All those years of deception, obfuscation, lies and subterfuge, of burying my persona so not to let the anyone get too close to my secret. Years of constant compromise. Wasted years that can never be recovered. So finally I am living the dream. I, me, myself, the Geoff of old and Jenny of now, a 1 in 10 000 chance. Trans gendered, transwoman, t-girl, transsexual, tranny

or whatever, but most of all... WOMAN. I have crossed the great divide. I have looked at life from both sides now. I have crossed the floor of the gender partisan, social parliament. And what do I do with this gift. I take it totally for granted, and moan and whinge at every perceived slight or mis-spoken  pronoun. Instead of seizing this opportunity of a wonderful second half life, I seem to spend so many wasted moments wallowing in self pity and regret for years lost.

One of catalysts for this reappraisal is that I have just re made contact with a couple of wonderful Internet friends in Joanne and Samantha. 2 girls, 6 years ago, who were there for me in those darkest early hours, sitting huddled over my PC, trying to make sense of things. Coping with a marriage crumbling around my ears, I hoped that someone from this newly discovered Trans community would talk to me, and it was Sam and then Jo. We would talk to the first crackling of dawn, tired beyond belief but not wanting to let go of our escape from male humdrum. Sam and Jo have much different lives than me, complete with their own responsibilities and accompanying stresses. Jo in particular is in a happy marriage blessed with 2 young children. Although I wish I had children, it is her who envies me more. I know that she longs to lead a full and fulfilling female life, and I sometimes think that when she talks to me it just reinforces her sadness. So I owe it to Jo and Sam to make the absolute most of my given opportunity. The other catalyst is that I had a good session talking things over with Vix the other night and she gave me a good dose of tough love realism. Friends are definitely worth their weight, and the friends you have as a woman are double that.

Sooooo what am I going to do about it. I guess all I can do is try harder to see the positives and ignore petty irritants. Easy to say, but difficult to keep up especially with my personality being a cross between Victor Meldrew, Marvin the Paranoid Android and err... Eyeore. That coupled with this blogging lark which is tailor made for moaning at the world on a daily basis. Well I am going to try anyway, even if the great philosopher Homer (Simpson that is, not the Greek bloke) said "Trying is the first step to failure".

The other thing I tend to moan about at times is my job. Well again I really don't appreciate how lucky I am. As a paid Trade Unionist, I have a job which is all about helping people. I always take the moral high ground, in that I'm speaking up for those worker's who may be suffering for low pay or bullying or any manner of workplace ills. Its a privilege and luxury to be paid to do this, and yet again there is still a tendency to get complacent and blasé. I don't have to try and flog some crappy double glazing or peddle some unnecessarily complicated financial "product". I don't have to think about the bottom line or the overheads. I don't have to break my back to earn a crust or sign the P45 that breaks a heart. I need to take the responsibilities of my role seriously, while never losing sight of the privilege I've been given by those who elected me.

A good example of this privilege is this very swish hotel I'm sitting in right now. I could never afford to stay here and I definitely can't afford to eat here. I took the wise and prudent measure to stock up for an evening munch at the M&S on Euston station. I got a couple of tasty looking ham and egg salads. The only problem was that I didn't get any plastic cutlery. So, how to eat my salad? I considered a raiding party to the restaurant to swipe a knife and fork. I perused the room service menu for the cheapest dish that would come with utensils. I the end I have decided to have a go with a pair of ice tongs that could double as knife and fork. I am not sure how this will pan out. The mixture of my clumsiness, the salad dressing and inadequate tool could result in a hideous mess. I may have to lay out a few towels!

The best thing about this room is the view I have of the British Library on Euston Road. Anyway messy salad here I come, and the second episode of Survivors beckons.