I was watching Indecision 2008 and heard it from Jon Stewart
Who told you that Barack Obama was the next president of the United States?
Dear people without uteri*
*I put it that way because even “male-bodied” doesn’t cover it: I just learned that some intersexed “boys” don’t find out about their insides until they hit puberty and start menstruating—through their penises. I recommend not thinking about it too much.
Anyway. So, here’s the thing. You know how we women bitch about our periods? This is one reason why:
I was just woken up by cramps. This is far from the first time it’s happened. I woke up and found myself doubling over in pain. I managed to get to the Aleeve (gyno-recommended for cramps, works better than other painkillers), and grab a heating pad. I’m now back in bed, praying for the drugs to kick in and the pad to work without also burning my stomach.
Every other period issue aside, cramps are often so mind-bogglingly painful that not only should we be allowed to complain, we should be allowed to skip work and school and leaving the bed.
What do they feel like? Like nothing else. It’s tempting to say like gas, because it’s the same general abdominal area, but it’s not really like that. It feels like your uterus is contracting, violently, I guess. Sometimes it hurts so much it makes you feel like you’re going to vomit. Sometimes you do vomit. Sometimes massive doses of painkillers and heating pads and orgasms galore (the hormones released in orgasm can help) do nothing and you’re still paralyzed in the fetal position, shivering and hot both at once.
It’s not always like that, of course, and some people never have a single cramp. Some, like me, get put on birth control at 12 in hopes of stabilizing it enough to make getting up and going to school an option. For some it gets better with age. For some diet changes can help. For something, not much can.
I’m not going to talk about the other side effects of menstruation—the mood swings, the bloating, the cravings, the gas, the swollen and tender (read: so sore wearing a bra can hurt) breasts, the stained panties, the acne, the fatigue, the constipation, the diarrhea, the headaches, the vague sense that you smell like blood, that surely everyone can tell that you are bleeding, the sheer ickiness of the blood and tissue pouring out.
Right now, I just wanted you to know about the cramps, probably the single most painful thing the average woman experiences on a regular basis, so that next time you hear a woman complaining, or see her popping an alarming number of painkillers, or notice that she’s having trouble focusing on anything but breathing through the pain, you won’t roll your eyes, or try not to think about woman problems, or get frustrated. Because if someone were kicking you in the gut repeatedly and almost constantly for five to seven days, you wouldn’t be very happy either.
I don’t usually write anything but comedy here. But this is important. This is a life-defining thing. I am officially a woman, now 1. According to me, according to my doctor, according to my therapist, and — now — according to the state.
Some of you know that over the past year I’ve been involved with Abby. She lives in New York, and I live in England. We had to travel, a lot. I won’t go on about that. I won’t go on about how hard long distance relationships are. I won’t go on about how much it hurts to not be able to go to bed every night with the person you know you’re meant to be with. I won’t go on about how even the smallest things, like watching an episode of Arrested Development together over Skype, feel like the grandest and most powerful gifts the universe can bestow on you — stolen moments that help you leapfrog oceans and laugh as one, forgetting separation. I won’t go on about any of that.2
But what I will tell you about is the nightmare that is air-travel when you’re a trans-person.
There is a period of time, during transition, when you are going out every day and presenting as your new gender but the medical establishment does not yet trust you.3 You cannot get treatment yet, and you certainly can’t get a doctor’s letter yet. The kind of doctor’s letter that would enable you to change your passport so you can fly as the new you, instead of the old one.
This meant that — for the past year — every time I flew to Abigail, I had to dress up as a boy. I had to fly as a boy.4 I had to land at the airport and greet her as a boy. Let me tell you right now — that. Fucking. Sucks. The first time Abby and I ever met in person she was meeting Kyle, not Avery. And she doesn’t mind, and I am so lucky to have a girlfriend so understanding, but still. I really wish that that first hello, that first hug, that first car ride together, could have been with both of us as we are. But hey — there are kids in Darfur getting shot in the face, so who am I to complain?
Last week I saw my doctor and got a note from him. He was even kind enough not to charge me. I traveled to London two days later, and stood shaking for half an hour while a very nice woman went over my paperwork, stamped “complex case” on my file, and took a hundred pounds from me. Another couple of days passed, and this passport — my passport — was delivered to my door.
Which means that Abby, fuck it — the world, never has to see Kyle again.
Cheerio, mate.
1 - Most of my followers know that I’m transgendered (I’m pretty open about it) but every once in a while we get to a stage where a bunch of people don’t know, and a post like this comes as a bit of a shock. Don’t worry, people-who’ve-just-found-out, it’s no big deal. Also, there’s punch and pie in the back. ↩
Especially since we’ve been very lucky with regard to the ease with which we’ve procured these trans-atlantic flights. Abby’s dad has a lot of miles. And is just about the most generous person on the planet.↩
This is understandable, and necessary, and I bear no ill-will towards the NHS, which is a fantastic entity.↩
No easy feat, considering that I’ve never really looked like a boy to begin with. Toss in the breasts, the hips and bum, the lack of facial hair and the style of my head-hair, and the conditioned difficulties responding to my old name, and things get a little trickier.↩
Love knows no bounds. True inspiration for those of us who do get to go home to our soul mates every night to never forget how lucky we are! Lots of good thoughts for the two of you to be together like that as soon as possible!
Thank you. That means a lot. (We also accept airline miles, monetary donations in both U.S. dollars and British pounds, and good chocolate-chip cookies, because mmmmm.)
I don’t usually write anything but comedy here. But this is important. This is a life-defining thing. I am officially a woman, now 1. According to me, according to my doctor, according to my therapist, and — now — according to the state.
Some of you know that over the past year I’ve been involved with Abby. She lives in New York, and I live in England. We had to travel, a lot. I won’t go on about that. I won’t go on about how hard long distance relationships are. I won’t go on about how much it hurts to not be able to go to bed every night with the person you know you’re meant to be with. I won’t go on about how even the smallest things, like watching an episode of Arrested Development together over Skype, feel like the grandest and most powerful gifts the universe can bestow on you — stolen moments that help you leapfrog oceans and laugh as one, forgetting separation. I won’t go on about any of that.2
But what I will tell you about is the nightmare that is air-travel when you’re a trans-person.
There is a period of time, during transition, when you are going out every day and presenting as your new gender but the medical establishment does not yet trust you.3 You cannot get treatment yet, and you certainly can’t get a doctor’s letter yet. The kind of doctor’s letter that would enable you to change your passport so you can fly as the new you, instead of the old one.
This meant that — for the past year — every time I flew to Abigail, I had to dress up as a boy. I had to fly as a boy.4 I had to land at the airport and greet her as a boy. Let me tell you right now — that. Fucking. Sucks. The first time Abby and I ever met in person she was meeting Kyle, not Avery. And she doesn’t mind, and I am so lucky to have a girlfriend so understanding, but still. I really wish that that first hello, that first hug, that first car ride together, could have been with both of us as we are. But hey — there are kids in Darfur getting shot in the face, so who am I to complain?
Last week I saw my doctor and got a note from him. He was even kind enough not to charge me. I traveled to London two days later, and stood shaking for half an hour while a very nice woman went over my paperwork, stamped “complex case” on my file, and took a hundred pounds from me. Another couple of days passed, and this passport — my passport — was delivered to my door.
Which means that Abby, fuck it — the world, never has to see Kyle again.
Cheerio, mate.
1 - Most of my followers know that I’m transgendered (I’m pretty open about it) but every once in a while we get to a stage where a bunch of people don’t know, and a post like this comes as a bit of a shock. Don’t worry, people-who’ve-just-found-out, it’s no big deal. Also, there’s punch and pie in the back. ↩
Especially since we’ve been very lucky with regard to the ease with which we’ve procured these trans-atlantic flights. Abby’s dad has a lot of miles. And is just about the most generous person on the planet.↩
This is understandable, and necessary, and I bear no ill-will towards the NHS, which is a fantastic entity.↩
No easy feat, considering that I’ve never really looked like a boy to begin with. Toss in the breasts, the hips and bum, the lack of facial hair and the style of my head-hair, and the conditioned difficulties responding to my old name, and things get a little trickier.↩
Yes. This.
Actress Natalie Portman was viciously attacked by an airbrush earlier today.
She sustained no injuries other than being made to look like she was created via CGI.
No motive has been given, although it is suspected that the vandals expected that if you saw Natalie Portman with any facial features, you would find her hideously disgusting. These people should be considered absurdly stupid and should not be approached without protective gear to ensure that they do not drip their stupidity onto you.
A spokesperson from the Institute for Reasonable Body Image Expectations said, “While this kind of fictitious image may be most damaging for prepubescent or teenage girls, it is also damaging for boys and young men, as it sets up an unrealistic expectation for what a human face looks like at 28, which is Ms. Portman’s reported age… or, really, ever. They are being trained to find attractive a person who does not exist, except on a computer screen.”
image via photobucket found via @gedeon
I’m now obligated by the Torah to point out that Natalie Portman is Jewish, and was born in Israel. No, like, she’s really Jewish, went to Jewish schools, wants to raise her future children (with me) Jewish. You know, so some of us are gorgeous and smart (Harvard!) and perfect and please don’t try to kill us again thank you.
PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT
I KNOW I look better when I wear my glasses. I know my face looks better covered up (I guess). Sometimes I want to wear my contacts anyway. Sometimes I want to show off my fabulous eye makeup. Sometimes I want to rotate in some different sunglasses. Whatever the reason, or maybe there’s no reason, it’s one of the maybe 4 or 5 days in a month where I don’t feel like wearing my (admittedly awesome) glasses.
PLEASE DON’T TELL ME I LOOK BETTER WITH MY GLASSES WHEN I’M OUT SOMEWHERE NOT WEARING THEM.
That’s just insulting. All it does is make me feel self-conscious that I look like shit at that moment. I know that part of the reason you’re telling me is because you’re so used to seeing me with glasses that it throws you off, but it’s still a not nice thing to say.
That is all. Thank you.
YES YES YES. I get it in reverse—“You have such nice eyes, you should wear contacts!”—and oh my god, thanks for basically just telling me I’m an ugly head.
It’s okay if I print this out and staple it to my forehead, right?
(via aedison)
That was my glass of wine! Well. That and all but one of the other glasses in the bottle. I know it looks red, but it is, the way-too-happy saleslady tells me, an effervescent rosé. Seemed appropriate for the ’80s, right?PS Seriously, Avery had a teeny glass and then I had all the rest and no I’m not hungover, I’m pretty sure I’m still drunk RIP John Hughes. We won’t, won’t, won’t, won’t forget about you.
PPS You can see in the background that we are faithful patrons of the local library. Because libraries are the SHIT.
