Brief aside: Due to mental health concerns, I am largely avoiding the news. I intend to keep blagging but the content over the next little while, best guess a few weeks, will be either personal, humorous, or adorably clumsy animal .gifs.
Weddings used to be mine fields for gender dysphoria. I hated them. The closest I came to liking them was at a Latinx wedding, because they played cha-cha-cha and samba during the reception instead of pop music.
I hate pop music, too.
Anyway, dysphoria, weddings. Awful thing The First: Forcing me into a men’s suit. I’m barely five feet tall and a ~115 pounds. There is not an adult man suit made on this planet that will fit me. These ill-fitting suits gave me plenty of reminders that something was wrong–though my last wedding attended prior to transitioning was still years from actually coming to terms with my gender. I kept looking at the women, thinking I was attracted to them (which was only occasionally the case), but most of the oggling was actually, “what would I wear to a wedding, given the choice? Her top plus her shoes with something different for the legs.” But men’s suits? Might as well ask me to wear an angry boa constrictor.
Now I have fun with weddings. I try to do something that’s still punk, even though I’m going formal. Think LBD’s with knee-high gladiator heels, or dress shirt and lady vest with shiny spandex pants and polished boots. Rainbow accessories are a must–any Queers suffering at a straight wedding ought to find refuge with me. I’m on the lookout for a rainbow underbust belt. Smoky cat’s eye eye-shadow is a must–can’t forget our busy evening of smouldering at straight people.
Awful thing The Second: What is with all the gender segregated traditions?
I mean I know the answer to that (patriarchy), but still.
It’s their special* big day but I’m cringing with 90% of the ceremony. These things still bother me immensely, even if people no longer look at me like I have a second head when I do the “women’s” things. I’m still reminded of when they brought potent and lasting discomfort. Now I get invited to bachelorettes and bridal showers and that’s validating of my identity.
Awful thing The Third: Children. Children are particularly triggering for my dysphoria. While I doubt I would’ve appreciated a girlhood stuffed in frilly dresses, the glib little fuckers are reminders of lost time. Instead of socializing, I’m naval gazing–hasn’t being trans made me a better person? Hasn’t it assisted my observations of society? Most likely, to both questions. But wouldn’t it also be so nice to not have to deal with shit? I mean, more shit than usual?
These were questions I asked early on in my transition, when I still resented the stubble that stubbornly persists (that particular demon still rears its head now and then). I’ll have to think on it some more to figure out why I didn’t care this time. Children still bothered me, but it was because they were shrill, shrieking humans-in-progress, and not because they were (probably) cis.
Don’t get me wrong. I still dislike weddings, particularly hetero Christian weddings, but at least I’m not feeling like I’ve stapled someone else’s skin to myself.