A long overdue marriage

I see his body shift. I see it remolding itself before me. I am living with a gray-haired (although he dyes it like I do) adolescent. And it’s exciting and scary. And real.

Photo via Flickr by brizzle born and bred

But the irony is that while his body is changing—that can’t be denied (I’m the one shooting him up with man-juice every week) he’s not really changing at all.

He’s always been a man—inside. Now he is simply becoming whole. He’s uniting his outsides with his insides. In essence, he is marrying himself.

It should be perfect, to see a human growing into himself, occupying all that he is. He is finding his Nirvana. And it is perfect. I love watching him slipping into himself, one body part at a time.

And I also feel loss because I’m losing the thing he was—even though I know now it was a false front. Some changes I’m loving. Others, I fear. What will it be like when he has no breasts? When his face is rough and scratch? When is forehead is broad with masculinity?

I guess that’s the irony: as he finds his place in the world, mine comes untethered. It is forcing me to think about all these essential questions: who am I? Who am I when I’m with him? What makes a woman? What makes a man?

I’ve always been drawn to the deeper questions. But now I must face them head on. And it’s disconcerting and scary and exciting.