I've been wearing women’s clothing for a little more than a decade and one of the first things I learned about traversing genders was the dramatically different relationships men and women have with what they wear. When it comes to women, men see bodies, not the clothes on them. When it comes to themselves and other males, men are clothes-blind. Technically, they may “see” the clothes other people are wearing, but unless something stands out, next to nothing actually registers in their conscious mind. A not small number of males will even have to look down when asked what color shirt they happen to have on at the time.
This is due to the fact that men wear clothes for only four reasons: protection from the elements, social/professional requirements, comfort, and utility. And – maybe - to support their team if they make the playoffs. Ego and self image have little sway on a guy’s wardrobe decisions because they are not variables in the male psyche. No matter how they actually appear, most men think they look just fine. Body image issues are as sparse in the male population as empathy at a Trump rally. Life-long hoarding of the Y chromosome seems to make men assume that they’re physically flawless, despite what may be overwhelming evidence to the contrary. It’s the root of the phenomenon that causes an astonishingly large number of men to presume that they’re irresistible to every woman on the planet.
It’s exactly opposite for women of all origins. We’re more likely to dress to express our individuality and feelings – and to strive irrationally to achieve that objective. Whether we always want to or not, many of us live to be noticed, to make fashion statements. And only sex and carbohydrates are more pleasurable experiences than being appreciated for how we present ourselves to the world.
I’m not sure why, but I embraced the female modus vivendi about fashion from the first moment I saw myself as Gina in the mirror. (Gina Marie was what I christened my reflection at my first makeover as an indirect tribute to my mother, whose name was Jane, and the woman I married, whose name is Mary.) I’d always been fascinated by crossdressing, but didn’t try it until after gastric bypass surgery almost 14 years ago, at the age of 45. As a reward for losing almost 200 pounds, I treated myself to a makeover and photo session with a cosmetologist who specialized in transgender clients. It was a magical experience. When he was done, the lumpy guy in a boring shirt and baggy khakis who greeted me every day in the mirror had simply vanished. In his place was a strawberry blonde in a body-conscious, animal print sweater dress, four inch peep-toe wedges, chandelier earrings and a matching necklace. I was a freaking BABE!
After the initial shock, I became a CSI scouring a crime scene for even the most minute problems with my appearance. Was my dress too short? Too long? Was it too tight? Was the white corset I was wearing visible through the sheer fabric of my dress? How about the nipples on the massive silicone boobs that had been stuffed in my bra? Did they look sexy or like cartoonish, menacing hi-beams on a Peterbilt careening out of control down an interstate? And I swear I’m not making this up. Without thinking about, I heard myself utter the shibboleth that has ushered women of all genders, all over the world into adulthood since Eve kicked off the first Fashion Week in the Garden of Eden. I did a slow, half-pirouette in front of the full-length mirror and asked, “Does my ass look fat in this dress?” I’d instinctively grasped that clothes not only make the man, and the right clothes can make the man a woman, but pretty much any article of clothing can turn a woman (including a newly formed trans-woman), into an insecure basket case.
As my crossdressing progressed the scales of latent machismo gradually slipped from my eyes and I began to see both women and womanhood through a new prism. (FYI, for a true trans-woman, the transmutation of mindset is always progressing. Crossdressing becomes dressing becomes the natural order of life. That image of a woman looking back at us in the mirror becomes our one, true self-image. This is the case whether we transition permanently and have gender confirmation surgery or if our dressing takes place only in our minds and we never get to physically wear women’s clothing at all.) Previously, when I noticed an attractive woman out in public, my mind would automatically tick through the questions on my personalized, “is she fuckable?” pop quiz. Every straight, semi-straight, and barely straight guy on the planet maintains one of these in his head. He can’t help it. (I always came up with the same depressing answer: the woman was and I wasn’t).
But after becoming Gina, the other woman’s relative sensuality became visual background noise and I found myself critiquing her clothes, hair, makeup and shoes. And then I’d wonder how I’d look in whatever she was wearing. I also, occasionally, caught myself muttering catty remarks like, “Honey, that isn’t a dress it’s a hostage video,” or, “There should be a chalk outline and crime scene tape around that outfit.”
(That’s another postulate of trans-womanhood. At least at first, we obsess over fashion and beauty. But, unlike our genetic female counterparts, very few of us get to experiment with makeup, hairstyles or clothes when we’re growing up. As a result, when we start dressing we are, effectively, young adult, or middle-aged, or elderly, teenage girls when it comes to beauty and style. We have everything to learn and want to learn it right away. We know nothing of nuance or muted presentation or elegance. Which is why, as often as not, some of the first items of female attire crossdressers acquire are slutty lingerie, stripper heels and garish wigs. Fortunately, most of us quickly grow out of that phase.)
Perhaps the most dramatic departure from my former male perspective, though, is that unconsciously, almost osmotically, I internalized the one, seminal truth about women and clothes. They don’t simply shop, they adopt. Women are wont to form meaningful, complicated relationships with each item in their wardrobe. We remember where we got each one, how much it cost and, more importantly, how much we saved, when we brought it into our lives. And those relationships are impossibly fragile. We may spend hours planning every detail of an outfit and love down to the core of our being how we look in it. But, the slightest sniff or sigh of disapproval from anyone and the garment can suddenly have all the allure of a cancer cell. Sadly, this is because, for far too many women of all I.Q.’s, ages, and combinations of chromosomes, body image is self image. No matter their accomplishments in life, no matter the frequency of positive feedback from others, or abundantly objective proof to the contrary, many women subconsciously think that the flaws in the mirror are blemishes on their soul. This is why the process of acquiring any new garment is pregnant with drama and emotion. Every purchase is a credit or debit to their fragile and finite stash of self-esteem.
As I’ve grown into my own manner of womanhood, fashion has become my obsessive sport of choice. Like an anal retentive gambler with a racing form, I study each issue of Vogue, Vanity Fair and Elle like a Dead Sea Scroll, mentally screening the newest must haves and cross-referencing them with the stores and websites most likely to have affordable knock-offs in plus sizes. I’ve also become a discount Diogenes on an eternal quest for the last honest price cut. Like a Jedi, I can usually "feel" an online "BOGO FREE!" event starting on size 18 dresses even before the email announcing it arrives in my inbox.
And like Snow White communing with the woodland creatures around the Seven Dwarves’ homestead, I’ve acquired the power to communicate with discount merchandise. (Only telepathically, of course. I don’t actually dialogue using my “out loud voice” with articles of clothing – until I get them home.) I’ve become “the Sale Whisperer.” That unbelievably cute floral print romper that I loved at my local Torrid store? I swear it called to me the other day when it was moved to the 40% Off table. "It's time, Gina” it said. “Carpe’ the onesie! Come get me. And bring the 'additional 20% Off Clearance' coupon that came in yesterday’s email."
I’ve also learned that the act of shopping is an intricate calypso combining the art of seduction, apex predator skills and the ability to make a purchasing decision in the span of a heartbeat. It’s a vicarious, delicious, mini-romance that starts and matures in a single day – with attractively priced parting gifts at the end! First, there is the electric moment when you see that red peplum top that would go perfectly with your black faux leather leggings with the lace cut-outs down the sides. And oh look! It's in the 70% Off rack! You little tease! Trying to mask your excitement, you saunter over and check the size. It’s perfect! You hold it up in front of you in the mirror and, be still your heart, it looks amazing! You can almost feel it caressing your skin as you slip it on in the changing room of your mind. Your hands quiver as you clutch it in your arms and head for the checkout. It feels like a forbidden sexual conquest. Fifty Shades of Markdowns at the Macy's Red Tag Sale!
The cosmetologist who did my maiden makeover gave me a warning before he let me look in the mirror that first time. “I haven’t just dressed you up as a girl,” he said. “I’ve given you a virgin dose of Glamour - the most intense, mind-fucking and addictive drug in the world. It is a rush like nothing you have ever known or will ever feel. It’s cosmetic crack. Makeup meth. And billions of women mainline it every day of their lives. If you are at all susceptible to it and aren’t careful, it will make you one of them before you know it. And your penis and that ocean of testosterone in your belly will not protect you.”
I remember snickering in response. “Not me,” I answered. “This was just a lark.” But then I turned around and Gina smiled at me in the mirror.