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Mirror at the End

Sophie Lynne | Dec 5, 2011

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The event of the night ends, and I head back to the motel room for the inevitable end game. Sometimes I encounter people on my way in, sometimes not. I’m getting used to the taunts when I do.

So then I look at my reflection in the mirror. I usually see a very tired looking woman looking back. Sometimes I’m red-eyed due to the contacts bothering me (or is it the drink?) My hair is usually just a bit mussed, and my lipstick color uneven due to some of it being left on various straws, glasses, maybe a cheek or two.

I dread this moment: The moment when I have to change out of my feminine dress and back to drab male clothes.

Usually I start with my nails. They’re stick-ons, and come off with relative ease. Then my eyelashes (if I’m wearing them.) Earrings. Rings, bracelets, any other jewelry.

Now the real bitch — I pull off my wig. It’s usually bobby pinned and taped in place so this hurts! Riiiiiip! If I look in the mirror then, I see a guy in makeup and a dress. Yes, the hair makes the look that much!

Then, the outfit, pads, etc. Shower thoroughly. Pack. Go home.

Why dread all this? Simple. By HAVING to change back, it makes very plain to me, each and every time, that I’m living a lie. That I can’t go home as Sophie. That in my everyday life, I am not a woman. Or at least, I’m not living as one.

I’m sure you’ve all heard this song before — oh woe is me! My question, each and every time, is what do I do about it? How do I stop the lies and stop changing in motel rooms?

I have determined that I must tell my wife. The lying is eating me up inside. Heck, it may kill me before my wife does! (Joke — cue laugh track.)

If you follow this column, you know what may and probably WILL happen after I tell her: I will be tossed out.

So why tell her? After all, it’s been three years and I haven’t been caught. Why not keep it going?
Simple — I hate lying. I’ve had two people recently say that they don’t respect me due to lying to my wife — that I don’t have the courage to just BE Sophie, damn the torpedoes. That I’m lying to myself.

So how am I lying? Am I lying denying my feminine side, or am I lying thinking that I AM a woman. Is this some kind of “revenge against my wife” sort of thing? Am I having an affair in which I myself am “the other woman?”

Or am I truly Sophie: a woman?

These are all questions that would drive even a therapist crazy. There are no simple answers.

But I will tell her. I must make sure I have my “worst case scenario” plans ready. Let’s face it, I work two jobs but am still broke. Rent on my own? Ummmm . . . Fear not — I’ll have a plan. Because I need a plan.

It comes down to this: is Sophie just a little fun on some weekends, or is she Me? And the answer is becoming quite plain. As plain as the face looking back at me from the motel mirror.