Eye of the Beholder

Somewhere east of the bay, on a slightly busy intersection, you may find a cute little boutique. It has a large plate glass window in the front, as many boutique's do, and if you were to look in that specific window you would find yourself staring at a mannequin clothed in a dress. But not just any dress - it is a beautiful blood red gown, elegantly designed and simply breathtaking. Every stitch of the garment gracefully pronounces the stunningly perfect hourglass figure of the lifeless female form it embraces. My friend and I just so happened to be somewhere east of the bay, on the corner of a slightly busy intersection, and we just so happened to be walking past this particular store-front window. We briefly interrupted ourselves to gaze up at the little red dress in the window. At length the desire was expressed, "I just wish I had the body to wear something like that." The reply: "Don't we all?"

The red dress is more then just another dress. It's the feminine ideal. It's what we are constantly taught by some unseen authorities that we, as women, should be. To be anything less then perfection itself is a horrible shame, and we will never be happy until we achieve such perfection. Or so we are led to believe. In the media, in society, in all forms of marketing. We know they lie to us, but part of us always wants to believe the lie, for the arguments they consistently and relentlessly create and put on display are rather compelling. And like all the best lies, they are based in truth. They appeal to our vanity, and in our weaker moments we believe it.

For many of us women with a trans history, the pursuit of the feminine ideal is even more compulsary then for most. After all, the very label we place upon ourselves implies that we seek after a more feminine state of being then we were originally given at birth. So at what point does it cease being about seeking a relief from the constant onslaught of dysphoria, and where does it begin to shift into the realm of shallow vanity? When will the pursuit to become increasingly feminine reach an end?

I realize that finding a conclusive answer is all but impossible, and that even if you could the result would be completely different from one individual to the next. And to be honest, it really doesn't matter all that much anyway. But still...Oftentimes I wonder where that line, should it even exist, is drawn for me.

I look in the mirror some days, and I can't help but analyze my reflection. My image is completely broken down into tiny little pieces, and each piece is then sorted into a category of 'old' and 'new', 'male' and 'female', 'pretty' and 'ugly'. It takes less then a second, and happens now without any conscience thought. I am so practiced and well versed in the differences that I can do it as easily as I breathe. And if I'm not careful, the unwanted categories are the one's that linger in my mind, and sometimes I convince myself that the good just 'isn't good enough'. It's not perfection. Within that utopian world full of immaculate beauty, flawless skin, and ideal hourglass silhouettes, I fall below the average.

But what of the world beyond the perfect world - the real world. The one with women whose waist to hip ratio is actually further from the perfect standard then my own. Where I pass by women daily with more masculine features in their face then the one in my mirror. Of course, there are many a time when a girl will pass by that reminds me that the high standard for beauty actually is within the realm of possibility. But when it comes to fitting into the average in the real world, I fall well within the bounds. And there are certainly women that I know of personally that, given the opportunity, I would be loathe to trade bodies with, despite my often envious musings. So if I'm reasonably content with my own level of femininity, why does the drive for perfection continue? At what point will a glance in the mirror automatically confirm what I know - that I'm fine just the way I am. Is the quest for beauty really nothing more then the desire to eradicate all visible traces of masculinity from my body, or is it a separate more self-serving drive? Is it still gender dysphoria if I battle the same body issues that a cis-gendered women might have difficulty with herself? If there is a difference, would it even matter?

I suppose the point of it all is that the red dress truly is beautiful. And I would love to own it someday - most women I know would. And I suppose I'll always dream of owning it. But as amazing as it would be to posses it, I don't need it to be happy. I have my own dresses in my own closet. And I worked really, really hard for the right to wear them. And they may not be as beautiful, but they're mine; and that's worth so much more.