Gender Jumper

Today we had a little power blip, so my computer (usually left on overnight) had to be turned on.

When I did, it sounded too quiet.

Where was the whir?

The screen stayed blank longer than usual (probably some background tests), but everything looked fine as soon as it loaded.

I stood vigil while it fully booted, turned it off, and turned it on again. No whir, no evidence of problems. I turned it off again until I was ready.

When I came back, I let it load and plugged in my external drive. Time to back up everything again, just to be safe. Took a few hours. But at the end, both devices seemed perfectly content.

I turned it off when I went out for a while. Turned it on once more, no problems, but still no whir. Opened the side panel and looked around. Not a lot of lights to indicate problems (this model is over a decade old), but definitely some dust. And three small fans, all running quietly. I looked around for extra drives (I've had it so long I start to forget specs), but everything was accounted for: one hard drive, three fans, one empty DVD-ROM, nothing else that would have made a lot of noise. I blew some canned air around and put things back, promising to keep an eye out.

It's occurred to me slowly over a few hours that some combination of helping Nesting Partner with her computer and the constant hum of A/C, air purifiers, and other computers around the house may have displaced me in time. As I thought about it more and more, I realized the "whir" I sought was probably from an earlier computer, probably my last desktop (purchased in 2001 -- I was so excited to keep MP3s for the first time!).

Sure, I'm a little behind on sleep and our fancy new Aranet says my whole house has too much CO2 concentration, but did I really just make up a memory from another era of my life?

It's not just that. I got a massage on Saturday, and was reminded of my regular LMT from caregiving days. I finally remembered her last name (a couple months ago I could not), but now whenever I try to picture her, her image starts to merge with that of my 8th grade English Teacher. Sure, they were probably about the same age when I knew them and roughly the same skin tone, hair, and build. But their personalities were night and day different, and I'm a little upset that I can't see her face. I wish we'd taken a picture together at some point, but I wish I could see the correct face.

Maybe this is something that happens when we age or maybe this is another tiny whisper of a future crescendo toward cognitive decline. As I've written about before, I have enough personal and academic knowledge of dementia to suspect that I'd be able to watch it in real time if it ever happens to me. Most people's brains start changing twenty years before symptoms become noticeable, but most people aren't as attuned to their own experiences and interiorities as I am and most who have been probably weren't tracking it closely to a specific illness.

I fancy myself a storyteller, and my recent urges toward writing are as much about recording what I can as they are about giving my brain a healthy balance of stimulation. I think I've had a unique vantage point on this empire of ours, and if our history were ever told the way we tell Roman history, the best and most important lives would be lost. But if these stories start blurring together a little too often or contradicting accounts of other people who were there, I want to be able to own that, too.

I realized tonight that the reason I feel such a strong urge to expand my expression of sexuality is not directly because of the isolation of remaining COVID-cautious, but because I was incomplete when I had the chance. I want a redo, because those days when I could be flirty and hyperverbal and got a lot of attention, most of those folks didn't actually know what to do with me. Even those partnerships that, for a time, seemed ideal were only partnered with an incomplete self, and I struggled for a long time to get people who fawned over me to see me as I really was, not just what they wanted to project on me.

Which, yeah, being dehumanized sucks, even if it's in a positive light, but I don't really take it personally now. I just miss the timing of it all. I'm not lonely because I'm getting older and less attractive, I'm lonely because this is the most me I've ever been and people are really fucking missing out.

I suppose it's a cliché of aging that we never know what we could do with a playground until we've already outgrown it, but in my case I can also lob blame on the capitalization of the Internet. Yeah, sure, if there weren't an ongoing pandemic there could be hookups or sex parties or whatever, but if it weren't for monopolizing sites like Facebook and FetLife, there could still be confessional blogging and erotica-swapping; if it weren't for photo-centric dating apps, I could write and browse intricate profiles and bask in the humanity and reflexivity of it all like I used to; if the community I tried to build all those years ago had half taken hold, we could hole up in a little corner of the internet and continue building those beautiful spaces as we once did... But none of these things are true.

And while I did alright with my partially formed self (most importantly, I managed to avoid regrets and protect others' feelings in most circumstances), I just wish something equivalent existed now that I understand my intuitions, my privileges, and why so many relationships rub against my sense of justice. And maybe we could have fun.