On the one hand, I’m glad I ordered those binders the other night, because mine sure as hell is too big.

On the other hand, it’s clear to me that I DO need something full-torso, and not just because it’s safer/more comfortable.

On the other other hand, it is even more clear to me that I do need something under a full-body-whatever, so it’s just as well that I ordered the binders.

Confused yet? That’s okay, I am, too.

On the plus (I guess, inasmuch as bras can be classified as a “plus”) side, I just got a couple of bras that fit me, but also are minimizers, so that helps all around.

Picture behind the cut. Continue reading


Packing Heat

Or something.

My First Packer ™ came yesterday, and I spent an hour tonight adjusting a pair of underwear to fit them.

Feelings are… intense and complicated and not quite all there.

I don’t think I quite expected that.

Not bad, just overwhelming.

I’m not even sure I can parse what all of them are, let alone try and put them into words right now.

Price differences

I’ve been wanting a packer for a while. We’ve amassed a number of ama.zon gift cards, and the wife said, only somewhat jokingly, that we should see if we can buy one there.

Well – you can!

But get this – the $24 one is listed for $30, and the $28 one for $40. Outrageous! I think we’ll find something else to spend those gift cards on…

First attempt at binding

(With something other than a super tight sports bra, that is.)

I finally sucked it up and ordered a binder last week. We had a little bit of wiggle room in the budget, and I wanted to see if it would help.

I’ve only worn it once now, mind, so we’ll see. I’m glad I got it, but I think I’m going to have to look at pics of larger bio men to see if I can better arrange all my different bits.

It’s certainly the right size, and does a good job of flattening everything down to equal sizes. The problem seems to be that, when your breasts come 9-10″ out from your chest wall, there’s only so much that compression will do.

So, yes, I was able to put on and button a dress shirt I normally can’t, and from the front, it looked pretty decent.

But from the side, I’m not sure. Don’t get me wrong, I’m well aware of the concept of “moobs,” and that if I were a bio man, I’d have them. But this doesn’t look like that. I feel like it still looks distinctly feminine. It’s sort of like… I’ve got a diagonal shelf coming out from my neck? Hard to explain. So I took pictures.

Taking a deep breath and hitting post before I can chicken out. Pics behind the cut, because though I’m (obviously) covered in each, they’re definitely revealing.

Any advice on positioning/clothing/layering?

Continue reading

Cue Panic

The wife and I are going to a wedding later this month. Long, long ago, when we started thinking about it in more concrete terms than “hey! wedding!” I got rather annoyed. I didn’t have any dress or skirt/top combo that both a)fit and b)was appropriate for a wedding, and I sure as hell didn’t want to spend money on one that I wasn’t going to wear again.

I jokingly put out there that I should get a jacket and wear a jacket and tie instead.

And wife, being wonderful wife, said, “yes! you should!”


And here we are, far closer to the event, and I have a jacket, a tie, a nice short-sleeved dress shirt, and dress pants. I even picked up a billfold like I’ve been wanting for ages, so I won’t look like an ass, trying to find a place for my driver’s license and debit card.

I am quite confident that I look good in the top, tie and jacket.

And yet, I am panicking.


The parents of the bride are family members who were not so nice when the wife and I got married, and then dropped off the face of the earth, as far as contact with us went. The one has started to make amends over the last year and a half or so, but it’s still rather tenuous ground, and I am equal parts hoping and worrying that they’ll have a literal stroke in the middle of the venue.

My mother is rather immune to my eclectic style (so to say) at this point (and, at Christmas, said only to me, “are those men’s shoes?” “yes.” “ah, okay. I didn’t think you wore a 7…”), but has never seen me fully decked out in suit-wear. I haven’t mentioned to her that I’m doing this. I’m not sure why. Perhaps she’ll be fine with it. Perhaps she’ll think it’s utterly ridiculous and roll her eyes. Honestly, it’s about a 50/50 chance either way.  But, much as I know she loves me no matter what, it’s still hard when I know she thinks I’m being ridiculous, when it’s something that’s not ridiculous to me.

The one person who DOES know is the Bride, and she hasn’t said anything negative about it, so I suppose that’s all that matters. I did threaten to wear sneakers with the suit (converse one stars – I’m not a heathen), and may still do that, channeling my inner David Tennant. But I’m not sure I’m quite young and hip enough to pull it off in a room full of 20-something hipster musicians, and my family.


I am confident that I’ll look good.

I am confident that I’ll feel good.

Now I just need to get over the fear of other people’s opinions.

In which I angst, completely unproductively

I have two unfinished posts hanging out, posts with intelligent and interesting writing, waiting to be finished and posted.

Instead, you get whining, and perhaps some talk of my own self-defeatest bad habits.

Last night, the wife linked to this picture with text (clicking on it will take you to the original post):


My first reaction: falling completely in love with the set and the text.

My second reaction: utter jealousy

My third reaction: sadness

I’ve said before in conversations with my wife and friends that I don’t mind my body, despite it not being my mental image of myself. And that’s true, I guess. I mean, I think it is. It’s mostly true, anyway.

But what is also true is that I purposefully try to ignore it. When I was a child, I had dreams that I was controlling it from within my head. That it wasn’t me, per se, but something that belonged to me.

I don’t take very good care of it, though.

I treat it like I do things in my life that I’d rather forget about. I ignore it until something goes wrong, and then try to ignore that until I can’t anymore, which is usually past the point at which I can do something about it.

If there’s something I could improve, that would improve my body or health or self-image, but wouldn’t quite get it to where I want it, then I tend to ignore that as well.

I’m very good at all-or-none. I preach moderation, I PERFER moderation. But when it comes to my body and my health, unless something will get it all the way done, it’s nigh on impossible for me to convince myself it’s worth doing at all.

Exercise can’t get me down to my* ideal weight/size/shape? Fuck it.

I’ve injured myself/got arthritis/whatever, and can’t do my preferred exercise? Fuck it, why exercise?

I’m not exercising? Fuck it, why eat healthy?


Suffice to say, it doesn’t get me very far.

So, I see a picture like this, and my first reaction is elation. But it is quickly followed by, “why am I bothering with any of this shit?” Because my gut tells me that, if I can’t get to a place where I COULD realistically pass either way, then why should I bother appeasing the voices in my head that tell me that’s who I am?

(ETA: I’ve also had a disturbing realization this week that part of why I don’t fight against my big belly more is that – in my fucked up head – it makes my boobs look smaller. Add in that my breasts don’t get smaller when I lose weight – they essentially get bigger, since the rest of me gets smaller – and I’ve got yet again an issue where the fact that I can’t go all in means that what I’m doing is actually actively working against me.)


I’ve been falling into a place lately where I’ve reverted back to as I was as a child. Where don’t just take joy in wearing the more masculine clothes, but also fight against the more feminine ones. Why do I do that? I don’t hate how I look when I’m wearing them. My body is mine, and that is me, and I can look good in a skirt or a dress, even if it’s not my preferred look.

As a child, I fought against them because I was told I had to wear them. If I wanted to be a girl, I had to. Well, then, fine, I wouldn’t.

Nobody’s telling me anything this time, though – nobody but myself. And it’s almost as if I’m saying, if I want to be a boy, I can’t wear anything feminine. But that’s not any more true than what I was told as a child.

What it is – I *think* – is that I’m feeling stuck. Again because of my size, and the size of my breasts. When I wear “boy” clothes, I am still obviously a girl. I am a girl, wearing boy clothes. And when I wear girl clothes, I’m just plain a girl.

And this is frustrating me to no end.


In my ideal world, on one day I’d be able to go out dressed as a girl, and read as a girl. And on another day, I’d go out dressed as a guy, and read as a guy.

But in this body, that won’t ever happen.

And apparently I’m feeling a little fucking bitter about that today.



*MY ideal, not society’s