Decidedly Obscure Human Complaints.

… pondering deeply about such things like what position I’d prefer to be in if I ended up in The Human Centipede, when I will go buy more wet food for Evilbunny (my cat) and a bleach pen for the white Hanes© shirts I wear every day, getting mula for school books, and whatnot - eventually the realisation of how seriously lucky I am in the tranny department comes creeping in.

Prior to starting hormone therapy a few years ago, I had literally resolved to stop dating. Zilch, done, ~fin~. It was just, too painful and triggering. Every attempt was an incredibly potent reminder of how I was trapped in a body that felt disconnected and uncomfortable. It wasn’t worth crying every single time and spiralling into weeks of hopelessness. Without intimacy, I could bind and never look at myself in the nude. Easy peasy. Solution foreva!

But, the idea of hormones sounded almost as awful. Losing my androgyny and looking like a boring ol’ greasy cisgender dude? Eff no. Heading down a path that insurance companies and numerous doctors explicitly exclude? Uh, no. Increasing my testosterone levels that are associated with shaving years off one’s life, increasing cancer risk, liver damage, increased cholesterol, acne, etc.? No, no, and no.

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SO REFRESHING. After top surgery, recovery, and then a conveniently timed month-long coughing sickness, today I went to the gym with the most bad ass gym buddy ever - my mom. Back in the good ol’ days, my mom and I went to the gym together on a daily basis. Until I started the hormone shindig and the locker room progressively got a lot more uncomfortable than it already was. Eventually it got to the point where I no longer knew how to navigate gendered gym terrain and resolved to work out from home.

Which I did, for a minute. But with cats purring and video games within my reach, that didn’t last long.

Until today when my mom and I finally ventured to the gym again together. My first boob-less gym work out!

It was awesome.

I hopped on the elliptical and sweat simulated jogged for 30 minutes. No chest fat jigglage! Back in the day just feeling it there caused a lot of physiological distress that had me hating running-like motion. But now? Love it. I could’ve continued to run, but I couldn’t resist skipping off to experience other gym thangs - including the men’s locker room.

Since I was a wee bot until I stopped going to the gym a few years ago, locker rooms were all kinds of awkward. My mom went with me before primarily to help with this, so she could walk in with me and help make the experience less socially awkward. But, this was also the first time I walked in to a locker room without startled reactions. No one called security, no one stood up and darted out when I entered… nothin’. Just, walked in, did my thing, walked out.

Whoa.

On a related note, recovery has been going super well! Between classes (particularly stats - the most intimidating phobia triggering topic *coughmathcough* that I’ve avoided for about 13 years) and being sick, I’ve been negligent about updating my progress. Essentially, this past month has been my nipples morphing from little blackish mutants into pinkish little nipply nubs. Now that they’re scab-free and becoming more nipply with each new day, I slather them in a Vitamin E / Shea Butter concoction. They’re so cool. Pictures soon!

Student land and selfish post-surgery running aboot celebration have connived to prevent me from blogging as I should! I will also upload pictures of my epic healing nipples at some point in the near future here. They are currently pink and scabbed, with my right one healing faster than the left. Why? I dunno. But, they’re both pink, alive, and resting upon muscle instead of boob.

Today was the first day I’ve bicycled to school since my surgery on August 11th. I technically could have bicycled after I was given the go exercise! green flag by my surgeon, Cori Agarwal, last Friday (the 9th) - but I’ve been sick. Apparently recovering from surgery, math phobia stress, and going back to a college campus germ cesspool are a perfect combo for such things. So for about two weeks now I’ve been congested, coughing, tired, and slowly getting better. Wah.

Even though I could barely breathe peddling along this morning and coughed galore, it was absolutely amazing. It was the most liberating feeling to just throw on a shirt, hop on my bicycle, and peddle. I could feel the wind blowing down the collar of my shirt and on to my chest. I had absolutely no acid reflux (caused by binding), no heat exhaustion… just pure, comfortable, anxiety-free peddling.

Similar to the lack of modesty post I made earlier, I can’t resist lounging around topless as.much.as.possible or occasionally showing off to friends. Earlier today, for example, I even enthusiastically allowed my blind and deaf friend to “see” my chest by running her finger along the incision line and along my crusty scabby healing nipple. I’m sure she loved that part.

Just a couple of days ago, I received a $900 bill from the U of U hospital for the anaesthesia required during my surgery. My first payment of $89 would be due on the first of September.

Admittedly, I was surprised to receive a huge bill after just paying almost $5,500 out of pocket. But I wasn’t upset. I think, pre-surgery, I might have been. Post-surgery? I’m way too floaty high up in super ecstatic land to be negatively affected. My affirmations kicked in with, “Eh, I guess I’ll figure out how to start making payments. It’s probably a blooper of some sort anyway.”

So I brought it up to Haley, Dr. Agarwal’s medical secretary. When I checked my e-mail a minute ago, she’d responded telling me to ignore it and that the anaesthesia bills for self pay patients are supposed to be sent to Dr. Agarwal’s office.

WHEW!

Had my first and second day of classes Wednesday and Thursday! The lessons I’ve learned so far?

1. It’s hard to carry books less than 2 weeks after surgery. 
2. Sweating in a compression vest is itchier than in a binder.
3. Nipple grafts freak me out. Today I see my surgeon and find out if my tissue is livin’ or dyin’! Yay!
4. Statistics = intimidating.

I also endured a lot of hugs. But fortunately, most everyone who wants to hug me also reads my blog - and know to do so side ways, gently, and semi-awkwardly.

I foresee this being a good semester.

In other news, not riding a bicycle SLAYS ME. I feel like a chubby little lump on a recliner chair. Which I am, but seriously… I absolutely can not wait to peddle furiously in sweaty booblessness celebration!

After working from home on a recliner chair in jammies for a week, I returned to the office yesterday. Wee!

I’d predicted that the worst case scenario would involve my being an idiot and trying to lift shit when I shouldn’t - but, that didn’t happen. Instead, the worst case scenario turned out to be the bro shake. I hadn’t realized how often this happens in my world… or maybe just on a college campus (and elsewhere?), but there’s a LOT of grab-hand-hard-and-shake-arm-or-fist-bump-or-variations-of-this going on. To which I’d whimper and respond, “Ooo, careful. I just had surgery.”

This happened about five painful times. “Hey! Haven’t seen you around in a while! How have you been??” *hand flies out towards mine, grab, firm swing while my hand flops around like a flaccid fish*.

There was one feller who bounced in to the office while I was in there with a couple other student government peeps. He was in student government last year and I shared a class with him. When he went in for the bro shake I diverted with, “Just had surgery. No shaking for me.” He of course asked, “Surgery? What for?”

Me: “Chest…”

Him: “Chest? Did they operate on your heart or something?”

Me: “No, no! Top surgery.”

Him: “Top surgery?”

Me: “Yes. To get rid of my breasts! So relieved!”

With this, he was clearly caught off-guard. His mouth literally fell agape and his brow furrowed as he tried to process my response. Meanwhile, in my neck of the woods, I replied with, ya know, the honest reason that I couldn’t shake his hand. If I’d dislocated my shoulder skating along a sidewalk or something, I would’ve blurted that out instead. But, when it’s presumed that I’m a cisgender feller and I reply, “My boobs are gone!”, clearly there’s a whaaaaa puzzle pieces clicking cognitive disconnect going on. 

Fortunately, instead of feeling compelled to elaborate and before he had a chance to respond, we were interrupted by someone else in the office asking me questions about something on the H:\ drive something another. And then he had to run off.

a.w.k.w.a.r.d.

Compression vest washed. Hair did. Squeaky clean. I smell like a bundle of hacked up rose peddles. Well, I doubt I smell that good - but after 6 days of funk? Sure seems like it. Now time to heal and study in preparation for a super important placement test Monday before classes start on Thursday. 2 week summer ~ FIN ~.