My Life as an objectified Trans Woman

Seems like any other Cis-woman’s life most of the time. My boyfriend treats me with the same sweet but at times condescending manner as any other Cis-woman. I often marvel at how little men witness their own behavior.

I lived over 50 years as a man, and certainly their are moments when I cringe to think of some of my own behavior before transition. The assumption of authority or the need to have my male ego stroked. My petulance when my partner rejected my sexual advances or my un-earned over confidence in business.

Conversely however, I witness the “loopholes” available to me as a woman. I can pick and choose my moments of strength or authority. I’m also allowed the option to be dependent or taken care of. I have zero guilt if someone buys my meal or plane ticket!

Things may be different for younger Transwomen, but as a boomer Transwoman, the gender roles still exist, and each side is still expected to play their part. Sometimes I feel like I’m “The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel,” putting my hair up before bed and putting on “frownies” after my boyfriend falls asleep and then taking them off before he wakes up. “Oh no darling, I just “naturally” wake up perfectly coifed. Would you like me to make you some breakfast?”

At times I feel like I jumped in a space capsule during transition and arrived on an alien planet, where my value as a human has gone from “what I do and how much I earn” to simply “how I appear and comport myself.” I almost feel like a traitor to all feminists for saying that, but coming from my original planet, that value system seems to still be operating. I know women might wish it were different, but cis-men in this boomer generation still like to show-off the things they’ve acquired, and one of them is their partner.

So that’s the trade-off I’ve made. I’m lying here having my coffee as my boyfriend snores away! (I’m expected to NOT snore! Very unladylike!) He can wake up with goopy eyes and his hair in a faux-hawk, but Miss “Trans” Maisel here has already groomed her hair, freshened her breath and washed her face.

I knew the job was possibly dangerous when I took it, but that doesn’t mean I had a crystal ball that revealed the menial tasks and duties of this aging Cinderella’s role.