Learning The Laws Of Their Languages

Today I did something I normally try not to do:  I went to the post office on a Saturday.  The line was about as long as I expected it to be and, after spending about fifteen minutes on it (actually a bit less than I expected), I was served by the rudest employee in the post office.  At least he was efficient.


As I stood on the queue, a man waited in front of me.  He was rather sexy, in an unshaven, rough-hewn, fatigues-and-field jacket sort of way.  He was also as fidgety as a kid waiting for a meal in a restaurant.  Everything, it seemed, annoyed him--especially customers who spent more than five seconds with a postal clerk.  In a way, I could understand his reactions:  After all, who wants to spend more time than is absolutely necessary to mail a package, especially on Saturday?  He seemed particularly exasperated when an older woman who was indecisive and didn't speak Queens English, much less The Queen's English and spent an inordinate amount of time at one of the windows, which held up those of us who were waiting on line.


He groaned and looked around him for sympathy.  "I don't believe this," he growled.


"Yeah.  Does she have anything better to do with her life?"


"Does she have a life?" he wondered.


Then, for the next few minutes, as the line snaked us toward the clerks' windows, he grumbled and let out sighs.  Finally, he said, "I'm sorry if I seem a little jumpy."


"Oh, that's quite all right," I nearly whispered, with a trace of a simper.


"But I'm not normally like this."  Somehow I knew that he didn't think I believed him.  Not that it mattered, really.  


"I've been really, really jumpy."


"We all have times like that," I tried to reassure him.


"Well, I've been like this for a month now, ever since I stopped smoking."


"Congratulations!  Whatever you're going through now will be worth it."


"I know," he said.  "I feel better already."


"And you'll feel even better...and save a bunch of money."


"Those are the reasons why I quit," he explained. "But it's really tough."


"Yes, people don't realize how addictive nicotine is," I assured him.


"Thank you for understanding."


"Oh, it's no problem.  I lived with someone who was withdrawing from nicotine, so I understand."


"You are very kind."


"No, just..."


"NEXT!"  The clerk called him to the window.  He mailed his package and left as I was walking up to the next available window.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him leaving; he waved to me.


Ever since I started my transition, I've had more and more encounters with strangers who revealed one thing or another to me, or who hugged me or cried on my shoulder.  I always wonder what they're seeing in me.  


I think that man knew that I found him attractive.  And the young woman who did my nails last week must have known that I was, shall we say, persuadable.  I'm certainly not upset that he talked to me or that she propped her head on my shoulder, any more than either of them seemed to mind the attention I was giving them.  But, even though I can "read" their intentions and desires, I still feel as if I'm learning how to act around people who share moments with me the way they did.  It seems that the rules for these encounters are somehow different from the ones that governed the interactions I used to have.  


Give me another fifty years and I'll figure it all out.

In Front Of The Wife

On my way home from work, I stopped in the Duane-Reade store near the Jamaica Terminal of the Long Island Rail Road. (Yes, they spell Rail Road as two words.) I had to buy one of those, you know, things a girl needs (!) and had a coupon from D-R.

Anyway, having found what I needed, I walked down the chocolates aisle. (I went from what a girl needs to what a girl craves, I guess.) There, one of those swarthy, eternally handsome men with a moustache was with a woman who was quite obviously his wife. The woman was looking at something and talking to him in what I somehow knew to be Arabic even though I don't know any Arabic. As he made the gesture of listening to her, he rocked back and brushed against me.

"Excuse me, Miss."

"That's all right," I simpered.

He paused and looked in my eyes. "You're beautiful."

While I felt flattered, I felt badly for his wife. I mean, I don't think I'd want my husband flirting with some sorta blonde stranger. In any event, I was at a loss I exhaled, "Your lady is quite lovely."

"But you are beautiful!"

"Well, I have a boyfriend," I lied. "And you have a very beautiful wife." Which, by the way, she was.

"But it is not wrong to admire how beautiful you are."

"Well, I appreciate the compliment. But, please, appreciate what you have."

"Yes, she is beautiful. But so are you."

"Thank you. And I hope you both have a nice day."

After I paid for the box of needs and package of wants, I was walking out to the street when, from the corner of my eye, I saw the man looking at me.

Now, I must say, when I got dressed this morning, I could swear that there were a few pounds around my midsection that weren't there before. And it was one of those days when every mirror and every window I passed drew attention to my seeming newly-acquired adiposity. (So why did I buy chocolate?, you ask.) But people, out of the blue, told me that I looked good. And then I bumped into that guy. Or, more accurately, he bumped into me.

I'm still thinking about his wife, though. I don't know anything about her, but I don't think she deserved that. Then again, for all I know, that's written into their marriage contract, or some kind of contract that they have.

In any event, it got me to wondering if I was anything like that guy. Of course, I never looked as good as he did. But I couldn't help but to wonder whether I was a little friendlier with some stranger or another than I should have been when I was with whoever was in my life at the time. I never consciously flirted with anyone else when I was out for the day or night with one of my now-exes. Not to brag, but I was flirted with a few times on such occasions, particularly when I was in really good shape.

I actually used to dread those situations because they always led to a fight with whomever I was hooked up with at the time. That used to happen whenever I went to an office party or other event with Tammy and her co-workers or when I would go with Eva to something or another that one of her Sarah Lawrence classmates hosted. At the office parties, it seemed like everyone was ignoring me (which I didn't mind so much) or hitting on me. And sometimes the ones hitting on me were the wives of the traders, accountants, lawyers and other executives. (Tammy worked for a Wall Street firm.) She used to say that they were interested in me because it was obvious that I wasn't in or of that realm of work. That seems plausible enough. But I don't think I'll ever figure out what any of Eva's classmates saw in me--except, perhaps, that I was with Eva.

Maybe that guy who bumped into me today was flirting for no other reason than I'm not his wife. I'm guessing that she was about my age. But other than that, we couldn't be more different: She was one of those classically beautiful Eastern Mediterranean women you could easily picture in a Greek statue or Byzantine mosaic. I guess a guy can get bored with filet mignon if he has it every night; a cheeseburger (if not a cheesecake) provides a little variety, if nothing else.

Then again, maybe he flirted with me, in front of his wife, for the same reason that Donald Trump trades in his wife every five years for a newer model: because he can.

I hope I was never like that guy or that I don't become like that woman. But, if that sort of arrangement makes them happy, I wish them well.

All Saints' Day

Today is All Saints' Day. I guess they're not celebrating me. Oh well.

When I was in Catholic school, we used to get this day off. Of course, we were expected to go to church, and the nuns always seemed to know who did and didn't. Still, we weren't obligated to anything else besides Mass, so it was still sort of like a day off. It was like Sunday, actually.

It just happens that today is Sunday. And last night we turned our clocks back an hour, so it was dark not long after 5:00 pm. Kind of ironic for Sunday, isn't it?

The day had been overcast until around noon. Then, the sun peeked from behind clouds, which broke up then scattered like the leaves skittering in the breeze. I walked along Vernon Boulevard, which skirts the East River from a couple of blocks north of my place down to Jackson Avenue, about two miles away. Along the way, there are some spectacular vistas of the Manhattan skyline, including some picture-postcard views of the Empire State and Chrysler Buildings.

The contrast could not have been more striking between the glass and steel of the Manhattan side and the yellow and orange leaves swirling among the rust-colored bricks smoldering in the late-afternoon autumn sun on my side of the river, where the working-class (but gentrifying) neighborhood in which I live gives way to factories, most of which are closed for the weekend. Still, some a couple of trucks rumbled through the area.

The light of this afternoon made everything and everybody look good. At least, everybody and everything I saw was beautiful. Really! And I was in a frumpy outfit, my hair was a mess and I had on no makeup but my lipstick. But men were looking at me, and one tried to chat me up as I crossed an intersection. And a truck driver--the only one I saw today-- yelled, "Hey, gorgeous!"

I didn't turn. "Hello babe." He couldn't have been talking about me.

"You! With the purple bag." I was the only one who fit that description. "How'ya doin'?"

I smiled at him. "Have a nice day, darlin'," Yes, he was talking to me. "You do the same," I cooed.

We hear all sorts of stories about women who are abducted and worse in scenes like that one. Such a vision flashed through my mind, but before it ended, he was out of sight. Of course I'm careful, but I don't think the man meant any harm. If he was out driving that truck on a Sunday, he may have just wanted human contact, if only for a moment. Or, perhaps, he was flirting just because, well, he could.

The odd thing is that as I become more vulnerable, I become less fearful. I take the precautions any conscious woman would take and understand the potential for sexual or other kinds of violence. But at the same time, I understand that even if he's big and tough, he's still a man. So I have some idea of how he's thinking or feeling and can work with or around it, as need be.

The truck driver was lonely and probably feeling that he's getting old (though he didn't look very old to me). He wants to make sure he still has his virility and charm intact. What better way to find out than to test them on whatever woman passes by? I gave him a smile and, as it turned out, that was enough acknowledgment for him.

It's not that I feel pity for him. I just understand what it's like to live in a male body, with testosterone bubbling over, yet feel time passing you by.

After all, it was Sunday afternoon. And it was All Saints' Day, with the glow of the first early sunset flickering in the fallen leaves just before the first long night of the season.