Transplanted Life
Friday, January 07, 2005
 
Being single kind of stinks
And not just because I'm a natural freeloader who likes other people to pay for dinner, movies, etc. All of that is absolutely true, by the way. Even if I don't have Scottish ancestry in this body, my cheapskate tendencies are evidently learned enough that they came over with my memories and a good chunk of my personality, and perhaps could even be said to have thrived once I got a handle on how the whole sex appeal thing worked. Ah, the joys of getting plastered for free because men think it will get them laid...

I'm kidding, of course. Well, mostly; I can't say I don't like being taken out, but I try not to look at it completely as commerce. I'm even starting to feel a little bad about it, even though I know first-hand that guys like being able to pay for a woman's evening, that it fulfills a basic hunter-gatherer need. Maybe it's a result or indication of feeling that this body is "home"; where a year or so ago, I figured the world owed me some entertainment at the very least for being stuck in a woman's body, now I think I'd like to be shown some respect. Just because I'm a girl doesn't mean I need someone else to take care of my needs, right. It's a little belittling, even though I know it's not meant that way at all.

Anyway, I've gone over that before, but it's kind of odd to see my attitudes changing. I wonder if it's a different-body thing, with the female brain and hormones and stuff gaining the upper hand because they're constant while male experience is receeding; a different-perspective thing, since I never really looked at it from a female perspective before; or just a getting-older thing, where age and experience just gives me a more complete world view. It's just odd to be in a bar after work, and trying to figure out what I feel about some guy buying me a drink, and why.

And, here it is, Friday night, and I'm home watching TV and playing on the computer. It's getting harder to remember how I really felt about that situation as Martin. I remember not liking it particularly, unless there was a Boston-New York game or something on TV, but memories of emotions are sort of vague. It's like emotions are transitional states, and if the emotion was strong enough to actually trigger a physical sensation - light-headedness, nausea, whatever - that sense memory sticks, but the actual feeling is elusive until I feel something similar later on.

I'm pretty sure, though, that I didn't feel like I was wasting time when I did it. I don't quite get why I feel that way. I'm not looking to rush headlong into a new relationship, I didn't get the whole "you need to have a husband and children to feel fulfilled as a woman" message pounded into me growing up - at least not to the extent that little girls do - and, let's face it, I can be said to be physically younger than I was two years ago. I've got time, right?

Then again, the rest of the world around me isn't standing still. Wei and Jim are married. Jen and Carlos have set a date. Nat has a kid. Heck, I could have been engaged to Doug. Maybe it's peer pressure - all your friends are acting like grown-ups, moving on to the next stage of their lives; why aren't you? I say I want to be good and ready, but how'm I supposed to know whether or not I'm ready if I don't try?

Maybe I'd be feeling the same things if I were Martin Hartle, living in Seattle without ever having had my mind plopped in another brain.

But maybe I wouldn't. Heck of a thing to ponder sitting in front of a computer on a Friday night.

-Martina
Wednesday, January 05, 2005
 
We have windows for a reason
We build ourselves nice little cocoons in our houses and apartments; with the heat on we can't tell what the environment is like without actually looking outside. That's not bad; I like my creature comforts and always have. It's just an observation; we sometimes insulate ourselves for perfectly good reasons - it's cold, we live in a ground-floor apartment and don't want people looking in our windows, with the blinds drawn in the living room because Telly was staying there last week and we just never got around to opening them.

I'm not getting all metaphorical here; just setting up the silly story that after yesterday was nice, I got dressed in a skirt and stockings only to get outside and find it snowing, only to realize that if I went back to change, I wouldn't have time to make my train.

So, I really hope I haven't caught myself a bad cold or anything.

-Martina
Monday, January 03, 2005
 
The family thing
Not quite "break out the bikini" nice, obviously, but it's Boston in January; we'll take what we can get.

Telly's moved into his place. It's not quite a rathole, but I liked my first place in Worcester better, and that was on the wrong side of Highland. Telly made some comment about maybe spending more time at my place. Not sure I'm comfortable with that.

I mean, the past year and a half, this is the first person I've met who knew Michelle, the original Michelle. Kate and Jen and everyone else at BioSoft, they briefly knew Alexei in her body. Dmitri, from what I gather, didn't get to know her on purpose, in case he lost his nerve.

A year ago, I'd have probably pretended to be her, or panicked because I couldn't. I wonder what that would have been like.

I called my mom today, talking to her about this whole Telly thing. Carlos has checked him out, and he is who he says he is or someone has built up an amazing fake history. Anyway, I had to call my mother; I felt bad, guilty even, having this other family member. Like spending time with Telly invalidates my relationship with her. She's having the same issue; she's been showing the other grandparents in her neighborhood pictures of Little Marty, but has a hard time getting her mind around the idea that her grandson's father isn't really her son, except biologically.

Well, time to knock off; getting today off for New Year's was cool, but they're going to want me to work tomorrow.

-Martina

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Note: This blog is a work of fantasy; all characters are either ficticious or used ficticiously. The author may be contacted at JaySeaver@comcast.net