|I like the corset.|
I remember reading fanfiction of it in which genetic males had residual self-image as females or vice versa on fictionmania, of all places, and also on more mainstream fanfiction websites whilst at University. I wondered about that as an explanation. Just as I wonder at the genetic information that suggests a 3 in a thousand probability that people are, in fact, born the wrong gender. I've said before that I rather like my male parts and can't really imagine having female versions. That stands. But, at the same time, I am minded of the fact that alcohol doesn't change behaviour - the belief that it does allows people to think that it will. It is an argument in favour of the on-going nebulous assumption that I am vaguely autistic that when I get drunk my behaviour does not change because I do not expect it to. I used to think that there was something wrong with me on that level (and maybe I was right, but not about what was wrong) and it is a diverting realisation. In much the same way, part of the reason I am happy with my parts is because I have always had them. Until recently, I felt the same way about my name.
|They have been there since the beginning|
and they will be there at the end.
Of war, I mean, of war.
I had been assigned a name at birth and, because I had always been called that name, I couldn't imagine being called another. I played a role-playing game and gained the affectation of 'Hardaker' as another identity, but it was simply another name to add rather than replace my own. Um... this was because, in order to get my attention, some friends from that role-playing game had to shout my name at me. I didn't respond to my name so they yelled 'Hardaker' and I instantly responded. It was... funny? Anyway, it tells me something about names.
Then I started this blog. I changed an old e-mail account to match it. I have commented on forums and on G+ using the persona that this blog is created in. And I have realised that I rather like being called Joanna and referred to as such. I do. I even went searching for one of those named coca-cola bottles in the name of Joanna. Never found one (got a Rebecca one though that I use at work). Even my bank greets me as Joanna on the website (you can put in any handle and I figured only I would ever access it, equally, as security goes, it's pretty damn' safe as it is unconnected IRL to me). Interestingly, it was only through using it on this blog that I found I liked it. I did not start this blog with it being a name that I could imagine being applied to me, it was simply another layer of anonymity (I've been through the reasons for the Rebecca moniker before). Is it the same about gender?
|And anyone who says, as a TV, TG or CD, that they never saw|
the Spice Girls as a valid cross-dressing experience is a liar and
I mentioned that the 90s took a shit in our house recently. It reminded me of the following, which is now playing on a loop in my head:
We had some family/friends over today. I put the forward slash in because, though they are, strictly speaking, Tilly's family they count more as friends and I mean that as a positive and complimentary thing. As a married couple without children I often find myself idly comparing them to us. They are younger than we are (hey, I am truly old for even mentioning that point). We went went out for a meal and Tilly had a pint as well as myself, which was nice. But she's on the defensive a lot at the moment, frustrated and irritable. It's... wearing. Anyway, we still aren't talking much at the moment, the joys of Nanowrimo, and I'm still counting (six months now).
I am ever more convinced, by the little conversation we have had on the subject, that the last time I spoke about this in depth, here, was pretty much on the money. We've linked arms a few times since the move, even held a hands for a short while in the park, but these are the exceptions rather than the norm. Increasingly we're drifting back apart to the worst of times back when I was in that depressive state that everyone who reads my blog enjoyed hearing about so much. I hear it's a sarchasm.
Why? Well, it's blindingly obvious that our friends are having sex. The little jokes they make suggest that they believe we are at it too. Tilly does not disabuse them of this notion. And, sad as I am, I find it grates on me a little. Work too. It seems that most married couples, even those recently (in a year or so) with child are clearly at it in a comfortable, non-boastful way. I can't even broach the subject with Tilly for fear of being told that I talk about nothing else again (it's been, what, a fortnight now since I last mentioned anything connected with sex). And, were I to do so, I would open myself up for another tirade about how little sleep Tilly gets at the moment, how tired she is, how much needs doing in the house (not that she's complaining you understand, she says as she complains) and how much I'm not making any kind of effort. It's a fond point for her. I make no effort. She wants to be woo-ed, but does not know what this means. Forcing her to watch films and snuggle doesn't strike me as being terribly romantic (what she says she wants) and, as she pointed out the other day when I was complimenting her on her clothes, it seems a bit rape culture-y to be forcing her to do anything on a romantic front. Buying flowers, cooking meals, paying compliments, none of these are considered 'romantic' enough to count as woo-ing.
So... I don't know. I don't know.