Day 31: Easy Peasy

One would have thought I’d have come out to everyone at work by now. I mean, I’ve only been talking about it ad nauseam for three weeks, right? 25 up, 25 down. Well, one would have been wrong.

One more to go. And for some reason, this one’s a toughie.

She’s young, she’s smart and she’s from Philadelphia. Easy peasy, right?

Nope.

Before I came out to the world, the two of us were in the office, and she noticed the hairbands on my wrist.

“What’s up with that?” she asked with an arched eyebrow.

And instead of standing my ground. Instead of using it as an opportunity to explain that I’m transgendered (hear me roar!), I blinked. We’re not talking a blink of epic proportions. I mean, it wasn’t exactly Khrushchev and Kennedy. But it would likely hold its own against most non-Cold-War-related blinks.

Let me set the stage. A little aft-shadowing, if you will. The evening prior, I told myself, promised myself that if anyone asked about my hair ties, my colorful, non-manly hair ties, I would tell them, 1) I like them and, 2) I’m transgendered.

So when she asked, I fixedly stared at the ground and repeated, “I like them.” And then blinked. Such a promising start, such an ignoble finish.

She gave me a look twinged with disapproval and dismissed me with, “Whatever.”

Fast forward to today. She’s been out of the office for a few weeks. Hit by a car. Whatever. It’s not like she’s dead, right? Suck it up, girl. I got hit by a car a few years back and you don’t hear me whinging on about it, do you?

Yeah, we Philadelphians really are the City of Brotherly Love. Case in point: any injury during a football game in Philadelphia, no matter how bad, we’d holler, “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. DRAG ‘EM OFF THE FIELD!!!” And that was for our players.

Cut back to present. Again.

I’m more confident this time. No chance of blinking. Not this cat. I don’t even know the meaning of the word. Okay, I do know the meaning of the word, but I’m determined this time around, no 21-year-old is gonna take me down. Nope. Not today. Not happening.

Oh, did I forget to mention I got schooled by a 21 year old? Yeah, sucks to be me.

Anyway, with the office empty except for the two of us, I plunge into my much delayed tale, beginning with stuttering and followed by… well, you know the drill. I’m more nervous than usual as I wait for her reaction, perhaps because she’s the one person in the office who doesn’t hide her true feelings behind decorum or political correctness.

But she breaks into a smile and says, “Cool.”

Cool.

I return the smile and admit to my aforementioned nervousness, relating her previous response. With a laugh, she says, “Yeah, that sounds like me,” but admits if not for her experiences at Emerson College (“I saw a lot of crazy shit there!”), she probably would not have responded as well as she did. So if anyone from Emerson College is reading, I think I have your new slogan.

With that out of the way, I gleefully leap into questions about sports bras (she’s goes to the gym A LOT) and scarves (she has a closet full). Not regular scarves, mind you, but those infinity scarves that look so chic in that devil-may-care way, but are in actuality so carefully positioned to look perfectly casual… like so!

My day ends with two more coming outs (no slowing me down!). The first with a former colleague (not AOL), the latter with a girl I almost started dating over the summer. Both are delightful reveals, the former refreshingly pedestrian as one of his best friends is transgendered (old news). The latter so heartfelt with the reciprocal reveal of heretofore secret lesbian relationships. I’m just not sure if I should feel honored over being included in the sacred rite of secret-sharing or just be flattered that I might be getting hit on as a girl. Either way, it’s still a win.

Easy peasy, right?