Diana 24/7
10.7.21b
With and without the cardigan...we are in that transitional part of the year when it's cold in the morning (need a sweater) and hot in the afternoon (sweater not needed, and besides, it looks dumb in the warm sun).
Apropos of nothing, I have a recurring memory that arises almost every day that I'd like to share. I have to think that most TGs have the same one:
When I was passing through puberty, and waiting for those moments alone in the house when I could get into my mother's closet, there was a short period--just months, as I recall--when my feet were just the right size to slide comfortably into my mother's high-heeled shoes. Before that time, my feet were too small, and after, much too big. But for a few precious months, and on a few precious occasions, those beautiful 60's-era heels just glided onto my stockinged feet (her stockings, of course, fastened to her girdle).
I missed that for a long, long time. Now, though, every day, my feet slide (there really isn't any other verb for it, is there?) into my shoes with ease and comfort. Flats, heels, it's all the same---and every time, I get a frisson of cascaded memory---happiness when I could do it, all those years ago; frustration when I was no longer able to do so; and validation, now that I can.
A case could be made, I think that transgenderism itself is nothing more than an elaborate excursion into unbridled nostalgia.
What do you think?
10.7.21b
With and without the cardigan...we are in that transitional part of the year when it's cold in the morning (need a sweater) and hot in the afternoon (sweater not needed, and besides, it looks dumb in the warm sun).
Apropos of nothing, I have a recurring memory that arises almost every day that I'd like to share. I have to think that most TGs have the same one:
When I was passing through puberty, and waiting for those moments alone in the house when I could get into my mother's closet, there was a short period--just months, as I recall--when my feet were just the right size to slide comfortably into my mother's high-heeled shoes. Before that time, my feet were too small, and after, much too big. But for a few precious months, and on a few precious occasions, those beautiful 60's-era heels just glided onto my stockinged feet (her stockings, of course, fastened to her girdle).
I missed that for a long, long time. Now, though, every day, my feet slide (there really isn't any other verb for it, is there?) into my shoes with ease and comfort. Flats, heels, it's all the same---and every time, I get a frisson of cascaded memory---happiness when I could do it, all those years ago; frustration when I was no longer able to do so; and validation, now that I can.
A case could be made, I think that transgenderism itself is nothing more than an elaborate excursion into unbridled nostalgia.
What do you think?