transretrogurl

The Runner

So, I feel I may have to explain that title for those people not born in the 1960s/1970s in the UK. It was the title of a book (and an Iron Maiden song based on the book because, err, Steve Harris comes up with ideas by looking at his bookcase) which was a bit of difficult read, but nonetheless something they made us plod through as kids. Anyway, the reason for using this is, gasp, I ran a half-marathon at the weekend.

If you’re a constant reader (and if so, kisses) you’ll know I don’t seem to have a thermostat when it comes to doing anything; I either do way too much of it or none at all, and as such I have damaged myself in a various number of daft places over the years by, well, over-exercising. And exercising through pain like I was taught to as a ‘person making daft career decisions when too young and still influenced by media coverage of the Falklands War). Suffice to say I’ve screwed my back, feet, knees, hell most of me but I’ve never run a half-marathon.

Pictured – also note, I was for a long time a chubby, but cute, girl.

How does this related to ‘her indoors’ I hear you ask? Well, let me explain in gory details the fun behind the run first and then it will become clear. And no, it’s not down to some amusing ‘I have Morton’s Neuroma in both feet, two in one, due to heels’ quip. It’s something a little more poignant.

Anyway, as with anything I do this wasn’t going to simple sailing. The train people had decided to call a strike for the Friday and Saturday before the event, which was on the Sunday, so my plans of relaxing train, relaxing hotel room, 1 to 5 beers, shower on the morning, do the run, relaxing hotel room, were screwed. Eventually they reneged on their promise for militant action but by that time, Friday, it was too late to get a hotel.

So, in standard session style, it was get up at 5:00am, drive two hours to Reading station, stand in the cold for 45 minutes, ride a packed train into London, ride two tubes, get to the start area.

Pictured – and of course, I’ve been exercising to lose the birth weight after child number two. Cough.

Talking of starts, for a start it was absolutely freezing. There were 16,000 runners and they released us in eight waves; I was in the eighth wave because they had asked me to predict my race time and my answer of ‘half a day’ was deemed to put me in the slow-coaches area.

For those who have never run an event like this, it’s strangely energizing to stand waiting for the start. Loud music, massive crowd of runners, crowds of onlookers cheering, music blaring. It’s intoxicating and I could almost ignore the pain in my lower back that had prevented me from exercising for four weeks before the event. Yeah, that good old back pain, oddly enough spiking a bit after the last session. Anyway, we shuffled our way smiling towards the start-line and then, bang, I was off.

Pictured – and yes, I’m waiting for the inevitable ‘why don’t you do the next one in heels?’ questions. I’ll just stick the swimsuit competitions when it comes to heels.

It’s an odd concept running in London. For a start, all the roads are closed so you get to shuffle, breathing loudly, where normally you would get absolutely creamed by a bus. Also, and it made me chuckle a lot, I had an insane urge to stop at every Red light I came to, still thinking like a good motorist. I hit the wall hard at 12 miles, but before that it felt strangely like I wasn’t running. You get into a rhythm, especially with spectators lining the route and cheering, where you kinda forget you are running and you’re sat in the back of your brain, enjoying the endorphins, remembering to grab a cup of water at the stations. It was almost, dare I say it, soothing, aside from the pain in the hips and the blisters squealing.

Approaching the end I ran down along the Embankment, through a packed Parliament Square, out across Westminster Bridge, U-turning at the end before coming back under Big Ben (yeah, St.Stephen’s Tower for all the correctionists out there), back along the Embankment and up past Whitehall to the finish line. The last half a mile was amazing, suddenly my feet had power again, and I stumbled across the finish line to massive cheers, picking up my finisher’s medal and surprisingly generous goodie bag, before taking a couple of selfies to remember the moment and beginning the trek home.

Pictured – there were a lot of paramedics and medical personal at the finishing line as well, although no nurses dressed like this for some unknown reason.

But why tell this story here?

Because when I tell the story to anyone I always start by saying – “I’m not a runner.”

Why do I say that? I did a bloody half-marathon. I trained hard for it. But I have to point out that there’s no way I’m a runner, no sir, not me.

And it struck me that this odd behaviour is identical with my urges. I’m still saying “I’m not trans” and “I’m not really a crossdresser” to everyone that will listen. There’s something broken inside me that refuses to let me associate with things I am. There’s a bruised part of my soul that refuses to accept my cross-dressing because I can’t be that, no way. And I used to think it was just the upbringing, society, ya-ya-ya etc, but it isn’t. I do the same thing with running. I’m not a runner because, err, hmm, err, well, I’m just not. Look at all those other runners, they obviously train, they obviously do it, they are obviously runners. But I’m not because, no idea.

Pictured – “I am not a crossdresser”.

When I finished the marathon I felt oddly out of place. Everyone was celebrating, some obviously in pain, others typing on their phones, all smiling. And I didn’t feel part of it, didn’t feel I had the right to be there, even though I’d just run the whole damn thing (in 2 hours and 29 mins).

It’s the same with Sarah. I feel like an imposter in my own body, and the fact I had exactly the same feelings at the run says something serious, and a little sad, about the workings of my brain. It’s as if saying something like that commits me to it, and there’s something inside me that is always ‘no, you aren’t interesting enough to be that, you are and always be just you, be happy with it. Let them enjoy it, it’s not for you’.

Pictured – I suppose you could call it imposter syndrome in that I am not, actually, Lucille Ball.

Where on earth did that come from?

In a way it was a great experience doing the run; it enlightened me about my own inner-daftness when it comes to, well, the real me.

One day I’d like to stand-up in public and say ‘I am a cross-dresser. I am trans. I am me’. And possibly “yes, dammit, I am a runner too.”

But I’m not holding my breath……

The Artist

Not going to finish on that because whilst it has my standard irony and cynical humour it’s actually desperately sad to realise, so let’s talk frocks.

Pictured – there are dresses, and then there are frocks. This is a glorious floral frock.

Said it before, way too many times, that there are two types of looks I go for; looks for me, and looks for the world. Recently, when going through the ‘way-too-many’ looks in my archive I find there are ones that I keep going back to and utterly love, and ones that I go ‘ooo, she’s a pretty girl’. And yes, the ones I go back to are *all* retro and housewife looks; it just triggers something in me that is almost indescribable.

To me it feels like ‘female impersonation’ rather than cross-dressing when I nail that look. It feels like it gets under the skin, I, as I have mentioned before, start to get this feeling of completeness. The nails, the lipstick, the lashes, the petticoat, the button-up dress, the retro hairstyle, it stops feeling like a costume and even like a fetish and feels like, and this is going to be pretentious, art.

Pictured – “She” likes it when you call her an artiste.

It’s normally one or at most two looks per session, but I get that little warm, electric-like thrill when I look in the mirror. And there’s nothing sexual; being 100% honest (and not so much now I’ve effectively chemically castrated myself) I used to get embarrassingly aroused at some of the looks I tried but never with the ‘art’ looks. It’s always this rushing crescendo of warmth and breath-taking feeling of pure joy that sounds mad to try and explain.

Going forward I’m probably going to do a lot more of those kind of looks; I have a session planned for four or so weeks from now for a proper 1940s ‘art’ set of looks. Authentic 1940’s dresses, hairstyles. I have even started looking for actual 1940’s jewellery, a ladies watch, something authentic and real just to add that extra spice to the outfit.

Pictured – yes, I *love* a little 1940’s roleplay, you may have noticed.

I think it comes from having done so many looks that I now know what ‘her upstairs’ wants to be. And she deserves some time in the sun.

Anyway, a little too reflective and maudlin today, mostly because all my muscles still hurt. Because I am a runner. And a pretty good retro crossdresser as well, if I may say so myself.

Stay beautiful, listen to your inner-self, but if they are constantly telling you to say you aren’t something, ignore them darlings…..

Pictured – plus, how many fetishes can I get in one picture? Smoking, PVC, 1950’s hairstyles, nails, lips, mumsy dresses, the list is endless…..