So we got on a plane a week ago and moved to Frankfurt. I gave the process 110%, and celebrated last night in the Anglo Irish Pub with a Jameson or two for a little taste of home. It was the first drink with ice cubes in 168 hours butwho’scounting. Wrote a few notes while there.
We’re staying in a very cozy temporary apartment for a couple of months. The owners left a scale in the bathroom. I tried it a few days after we arrived, but even accounting for kilograms, I thought it was broken. Finally got Kris to try it yesterday, since she’s so consistent, and the scale is perfectly accurate — it’s MY weight that’s off.
Since starting our moving the moving process in earnest 5 weeks ago, I’ve lost 21.4 pounds. I have literally worked my ass off, and my love handles. No time to eat and never stopping moving (plus doing all the lifting, since Kris broke her elbow a few weeks before we left, actually pays off. Starting a migraine preventive during that time (finally) has helped, too — it’s tempered my outsized appetite down to a normal size AND quashed most headaches, too.
Our apartment is cozy, if too small for two active six-year-olds. Is ANY house big enough for two active six-year-olds?! Our neighborhood feels safe, quiet. Transit is plentiful and easy. Shopping it pretty easy, and everything on offer is nicer than the shoddy goods we’re used to. The weather is a little grayer and a little cooler than we’re used to, but after 70s right up through November, it’s about damn time. Bundle up, motherfuckers, it’s xmastime.
Can’t help thinking my ASD makes me well-suited for much of life in the city. Avoiding eye- and physical-contact, no matter how close the quarters, is first nature. Minding my own business, the same. Efficiency? Check. Working within the system (when the system makes sense), hard same — and a lot of things in Germany have been engineered logically. Feeling visibly invisible is a preferred state whenever more than 2 or 3 people are around, so I don’t understand that “lonely in the big city” trope.
So I boarded a plane and landed here in a foreign land and unpacked some clothes into an apartment that smells like my mom’s best friend’s house from my childhood in Macon. She wasn’t German — Moroccan — but if you go far enough away, maybe you come back around, like a boomerang.
My kids like the food here, mostly. I tried lychee for the first time. I’ve been overwhelmed by the selection of meat products at even the small grocery (meat “pretzels” for the keto soul, y’all). I’ve been thwarted finding Jameson as anything but by the pour — until I realized I can buy it on Amazon Prime and wondered why we didn’t move here years ago. Public toilets aren’t as plentiful as my overactive bladder would prefer, and it helps to have spare change, but tant pis.
I’m here. It’s December. There’s chocolate and cookies everywhere. We’ll figure it out.
[Ed note: I haven’t posted anything here about it, but I wrote a bit about my 2019 trans awakening in a recent Instagram post. Then I had top surgery last week.]
One week post-surgery verdict: I look like a giant baby who’s seen some shit.
Fat, unsexed, bloodied and bruised.
I traded two boobs for a belly. Sitting or standing, it’s all I can see from up here. From sweater bumps to smuggling a lap cat. From Venus of Willendorf to Homer Simpson.
And even with the chest swelling, squaring things out a little and having no nipples really un-genders the whole upstairs affair.
So yeah, I spent over $9,000 and risked death to look like a drunk-tank cupid.
But wait! Here’s the perverse part:
Part of me wonders, why aren’t they throwing roses at me and my new, clearly improved body?
Smell that? Eau de Male Privilege. A helluva drug.
(And it’s putti, not cupid, I know…but nobody else knows, so.)
The puzzle I’m working on since it’s too soon to work out
I am not an incremental thinker or a bit-by-bit believer. Sowing and reaping is for farmers, and people who believe in an afterlife. I’m a global thinker, into eurekas and epiphanies, big bangs and unfurling the rest later. Details are for peons, you know? Scoffs: What experience do I have with step-by-step progress?
Getting through school? Bah. I was but one small speck of the disaffected phalanx carried on the college-prep current, until I was nearly carried out on my shield.
Going blind and losing big weight a la 2011? Closer, I suppose, though Part A had no logical connection to Part B. I did get in the habit of being delivered to a gym, doing stuff, and doing it all again a few days later. Until I didn’t anymore, because I started
Making babies? But that was a miracle that happened adjacent to me, practically in spite of me even if inside of me. I ate, we grew. I walked, we grew. I rested, we grew. No logic there but being, as much plant as animal.
But this trans thing IS a piecemeal process, and this surgery is laying part of a foundation for something else to come. Something, but I don’t know what. I can’t explain it to anyone else. I can’t even really verbalize it to myself, which goes to show how it hid in plain sight for uhh 30 years.
It’s an ur-narrative, as simple as a couplet: first this, then that.
It’s an ur-narrative, as confused as truth: first me, then me.
¿Por qué? Porque.
Off to learn everything I can about embodied cognition and fatboy fashion. Chins up!
The show was announced way back in August. That same day, I bought 2 tickets and sent a calendar invite to Kris to save the date.
The show would fall just a couple of weeks after our 20.5-year anniversary, and she’d really enjoyed their show last year with me at Terminal West. And this one would be even closer, just 20 minutes away at a venue we’d been visiting since high school.
From August through November, life went on. Back to school, colds, travel for work, the full serving of life in progress.
Since I follow HGM on twitter and instagram, I’d see updates about their tour, and I’d be just as excited all over again.
When they announced “our show” had sold out, I congratulated myself on my (1) excellent taste and (2) wise early-bird purchasing habits.
Less than a week prior to the big night, I realized with horror that we hadn’t asked our favorite sitter if she could stay with the boys. Kris was spending a week out of the country, so I deep in the subsistence one-day-at-a-time bunker of single parenting. Totally not conducive to planning ahead, or any of the executive functions (unless falling asleep at 8:45pm counts as one. And if it doesn’t, I don’t want to hear abzzzz zzz zzz.)
But luck was on our side! Our saintly sitter was available. SET PHASERS TO ROCK.
The Big Day Arrives
A couple of hours before our planned exit time, I take care of final preparations:
Load my wheelchair, saying a quick prayer of thanks for the clear skies (the joys and sorrows of having an external lift!)
Move the car so the sitter will have a place to park
Pack my small wallet
Fish my winter gloves out of the closet
Check venue site for suggested parking spots
Then, I opened my email to print out the tickets.
And my email said, “What tickets?”
Oh, must have had a typo. Try again, please.
Change up my search terms: full artist name? Venue? Date?
NOPE. NOPE. NOPE.
Go straight to ticket seller site to check my purchase history.
NOT EVEN A LITTLE BIT
In desperation, I went to my bank’s site and pulled up the 3 month old statement, looking for the transaction that I KNOW I made.
BITCH, ARE YOU FAMILIAR WITH THE DEFINITION OF INSANITY?
But by that time, I was not familiar with anything. My own kitchen faded out and spun away, like in a bad dream. I was speechless. But…? How…?
With the sitter due at 6pm, I confessed to my wife my revelation that I must be an idiot. Somehow, she did not seem as surprised by this revelation as I.
Go easy on me, honey, I’m not doing too well
Do you hate me honey, as much as I hate myself?
Like most parents of small children, we don’t get a lot of nights out together, and we didn’t want to cancel on our sitter and have her lose the planned income. A chain of sorrows.
Time to scare up a Plan B. There must be something else happening on the Sunday night before Thanksgiving.
In this city of nearly 6 million people.
In this, the 9th-largest-in-the-nation metro area.
N O T H I N G
And I don’t mean “nothing as good as our original plans.” Our goal for months was to see HGM – nothing could match that.
I mean “nothing” as in “not a single thing.” Every events calendar was cleared until after Thanksgiving.
JFC. What do people even do after 7pm?
Movies! What’s playing?
Oh, that’s right – NOTHING.
Finally, in disgusted resignation, we buy two tickets to Geostorm twenty miles away. With the movie holding at 13% on Rotten Tomatoes, at least I wouldn’t have to pretend to have liked it. This was the best of the bad outcomes.
Seeking company for my misery, I tweeted my disappoints out to the world.
A minute later, I get a reply notification. Unusual, because even my nearest and dearest treat my tweets like the elevator farts they are: best to politely ignore them, hoping I’ll stop soon or leave.
But when I check, the reply was from MC.
! ! ! ! ! !
The next minute was a blur. DM, reply, an email, and he put us On The List.
A bolt from the blue of pure grace.
We drive to dinner a couple blocks from the show venue, dine, and toast to my undeserved good fortune, to the grace of artists working from love, to a wife who doesn’t hate me as much as I hate myself.
We roll toward the venue at doors open. There would be no opener, and it’s easier to maneuver my chair before the crowds reach max capacity.
We arrive at the venue’s entry, where the opening door is up a half-flight of brick steps.
When the door swings open, we can see 2 more flights of steps leading up to the venue proper, the listening room.
As I mentioned, we’ve been to this venue off and on for the last 20 years – but not in the last few, not since I’ve had my wheelchair.
After the couples in front of us file in, we coolly ask the door man, “Where’s your wheelchair entrance?”
“We don’t have one.”
“Sorry, we don’t have one.”
Kris and I exchange dubious glances. Is he new? In possession of a remarkably dry sense of humor? Is it backstage, so they keep its use tightly restricted?
“But…but…how do you get gear and stuff in?” I stammer.
“Carry it.” And he shrugged all of his many muscles, some of which appeared to shrug their muscles.
Well, son of a bitch. We made it this far — through the Forest of Wait and the Bog of Buying Brainfart, to On the List, to the literal Doorstep of the Venue — and there was No Way In.
We move back to regroup. A few walkups get told it’s sold out and leave. A few more ask about the band anyway, which I tell them is great (hence sold out) and can’t help pettily throwing in “and it sucks that they put me on the list, and neither of us knew I wouldn’t be able to actually get in.”
I might have said that last part extra loud so muscley doorman would hear. *angel on my shoulder blushes*
But it worked. *devil on my shoulder grins*
This man of few words said, “Well, we’ll get you in there if you’re on the list. What if we carry your chair up? Can you get up the stairs, then sit again when we get it to the top?”
“My [power] chair weights 130lbs!”
“And I weight 260,” he countered good-naturedly.
“I weight 220, but I can’t lift it.”
I am thoroughly skeptical person, and also this female salmon. But. If they’re offering. And if it’s really the ONLY WAY…
There’s one way in and there’s one way out and we’re gonna have a good time
Kris offered her arm to my death grip, and I clawed the bannister with the other hand. I step, step, rested, step, dragged my weak leg and large ass up too many stairs to count.
Showed my ID to the list holder, got stamped, and staggered in.
Down below, Doorman recruited two other willing guys and brought up my big, bulky wheelchair.
I was too ashamed to look back. I was mortified they had to do that for me, and flooded with appreciation that they would anyway, and terrified they’d hurt themselves or the chair in the process.
It’s a basic-ass power chair, but it took me a $1,000 co-pay and nearly a year of time to get it. A replacement would cost over $6,000 because my insurance company doesn’t shop on Amazon.
Eventually, it arrived, and I sat and tried to breathe slow and not cry. (Not tonight!)
But the lack of elevator was just the tip of the inaccessibility iceberg. There was no designated seating area for chair users, so we were left to strategize our own spot. We picked one at the end of the bar, next to the (low) tables where standing people would be less likely to block my view.
The crowd fills in moments later and fills the place up. I will not be able to go anywhere until it clears out again after the show – unfortunate news to my neurogenic bladder’s every 20-minute schedule, but again, no choice here.
It’s hard, Lord
Lord, it’s hard
Everybody in the whole damn place has gotta have a good time
And in that alchemy, the mess, the strife, the shame of getting there melted away.
We groove like only HGM can groove.
We laugh. We sing along. I chair-dance myself sweaty.
And alsocountless people trip over the footplate of my chair (and my feet). I have to pee for an hour and a half, leaving me praying the show never ends and ends right now. Bitter and sweet, sweet and bitter.
They play all my favorites.
I’m amazed at the energy the band can bring to this last stop on tour.
I’m humbled at the sacrifices they make to come bring this experience to us. Thousands of miles and dozens of days and countless loved ones left, just to fill us with the gospel of the jukebox.
It’s like an oil change for the soul. The toxic sludge drained out, the life-giving power of connection restored.
Emerson, putting the threenager pedal to the metal these days.
Getting ready for bed tonight, he started throwing his water bottle in protest of having to put on pajamas.
I warned that I would take away the water bottle if he did not stop chucking it around. (It was full, and heavy, and the room is not that big, and his brother was rolling around on the floor without a helmet – not that I need a single reason). He threw it 2 more times in rapid succession, so I took it away. Poured out the water and put the bottle on an unreachable shelf in the bathroom.
He pouted, cried, begged, wheedled, demanded, cajoled, pleaded, and cried some more to get it back.
etc etc etc for like half an hour literally
Finally, he stood up and walked out of the room without a word. I assumed he was going to get a drink from his water cup in the kitchen…until I heard the clunk of an empty water bottle on the bathroom counter, and the water turning on, and the bottle filling up.
He’d gone to the kitchen, all right, but instead of drinking inferior cup water, he got a fresh water bottle from the drawer and filled it up himself.
I went to help him screw the top on tight. Wordlessly.
Because that’s what you do, right? When the universe has a laugh and gives you a kid just like you but with more energy and fewer inhibitions?
You give up. You pitch in. You take your half-victory, and he takes his.
You try not to think about velociraptors opening door knobs. Not tonight.
After nearly a month of stringing us along, the insurance guy decided to Total our van yesterday.
So instead of looking for a new family/wheelchair vehicle in 4+ years, as planned, we have about 48 hours. *pukes a rainbow*
We negotiated (pro tip: that’s what you call begging when you manage not to cry) with the body shop via the insurance guy to have them remove the wheelchair lift and the nice stereo we got installed last year. And they’ll reinstall the lift when we’re “ready,” which is objectively better than nothing. *pukes a rainbow*
Tomorrow we go clean the rest of our stuff out of the van and leave the factory radio and some other accessories. Going through the house, filling a laundry basket with headrests and headphones, manuals and key fobs, it looked like I was breaking up with somebody.
I guess – I never have done that. *pukes a rainbow*
Kk is going with me to look at a possible replacement tomorrow.
We’ll not be getting another van because none are high enough to clear our steep driveway without scraping.
Most cars can’t handle the tongue weight needed for the external lift, and I like buying cheap furniture too much to give up all cargo space.
A pickup would be too tall for the boys right now, though it’d be great for all our hardware store trips.
Compact SUVs are too small, and big ones are too expensive and too big.
That leaves midsize SUVs, which I’ve never owned before and only driven a couple of times. But I’ve mocked them plenty, so there’s that.
I think I feel about getting an SUV the way many ppl feel about getting a minivan. It’s a rolling concession, a deep bow to the familial and financial and physiological forces I could theoretically travel lighter without.
So much lighter.
But then who would I be traveling with? But then who would I be, traveling?