<facepalm>

"You've got to be fucking kidding me." I look around. Yep. It sure is. It's fucking 1991, and it appears the universe is playing a giant goddamn joke on me.

Ok, so some background. In my subjective reality, I figured out I was trans a year ago. I built up to that over a few years, and when my egg cracked, it was a Big Fucking Deal. I'm not here to talk about that, though.

Apparently, I've been launched into a ridiculous trans meme: Going Back To Talk To Your Past Self And Tell Them It'll All Be Ok. Have I ever heard any evidence that time travel is really real? No. Until just a moment ago, I was sitting in my room in 2023 and wondering if Desantis was going to get the nom and maybe Trump would split the vote for 2024. I was thinking about whether I really wanted bottom surgery. I was not "passing" in any way as female, but my friends all called me Heather and she/her'd me like I'd asked them to, because they're nice.

But now it's 1991, and I'm looking at the basement of the house I was living in at the time, all crappy wood paneling and the basement kitchenette, and I know what's through that bedroom door. Fuck. I don't want to have this conversation, I know it's not going to go well.

I resign myself to my fate, and knock on the door. "John?" I call. My femme voice still sucks, so it comes out as this sort of soft androgynous voice with overtones of trying-too-hard. I push through the door, listening to the subdued tones of Faith by The Cure (fuck, I was just listening to that, too -- don't tell me Robert Smith's voice is the magic juju behind time travel, that's just too weird to think about). It's dark out, no clue what time it is, but probably after dinner and before 2 am?

There I am. Well, past me. There's John. He's lying on the bed. For the sake of this little story I'm gonna refer to him as a different person from me, because yeah, that's a whole thing.

He looks up at me, his face obviously telegraphing anger and a desire (usually repressed, as I recall) to yell at whoever's interrupting.

"What the hell is going on? Who are you?" he asks, and then after a pause, "Wait, are you me?"

"Apparently," I say, grimacing slightly, "I've been sent here to have a soulful conversation with you and assure you it's all going to be alright. Yeah, I'm you, or you're me, or something. I don't even know. I'm kinda hoping this whole thing is a dream."

He looks skeptically at me. I mean, I would too, so I guess that makes sense. "You don't look like I expected. You look kinda gay. Am I.. uh.. are we gay?"

"No, turns out I'm trans. We, I mean, we're trans. Shit, hold on," I say, looking at his face. "Back up. I'm trans. I don't know about you. Maybe that's why I'm here."

"Hold on, are you here for me, or for you? Is this time travel? Are you from the future? I don't get it." He is starting to look a little scared now, so I pick my way past the mess on the floor and sit down at the desk. Little tricks you pick up to seem less imposing. Thanks male puberty.

"I don't know why I'm here. A moment ago it was 2023, and I was, as it happens, listening to this same album. I suspect the universe has a really weird sense of humor. Or it was aliens, I'm not sure."

"Why," he asks somewhat contemplatively, "am I not like totally freaking out right now?"

"Narrative convenience? I dunno. Maybe you saw this scar on my nose? Yeah, we never got it fixed." He gives a little start and fingers the scar on his own nose, which matches mine, though it's a bit more fresh-looking on him, since it would only be a year or two old. "Anyway, thinking about it, I'm going to guess you don't know what 'trans' means, do you?"

"Uh... is this, like, guys who dress up like girls? Wait." He peers more closely at me. "Do you have boobs!?"

Another grimace -- not because I'm ashamed of having boobs, I just know this is going to be a weird conversation for past-me. "Yeah. I think that's what I'm here to talk to you about."

He grabs for a blanket, seeming unaware that he's doing it, and wads it up into a ball that he clutches to his chest. He's sitting up on the bed now, and his face, my face I guess, is an incoherent mess of emotions I don't remember even knowing about. In the background, I hear the needle lift off the record as the turntable's limit switch closes, and the tonearm cycles back to the resting position with a little mechanical ker-click sound.

He's silent for a long time. The absence of music rings loudly in my ears. I'm not sure if I'm waiting for him to say something, or waiting for me to figure out what the hell I say next. Finally, he speaks. "So, are you... uh, are we, somehow, like, female? You don't look very female, or sound female." He thinks for a minute, then, "Wait, 2023? How old are you?"

"Fifty, as it happens."

"Oh, damn. We look good for fifty." He's got a little smile on his face, though the emotions are still clearly churning.

"Yeah, stay out of the sun. Stick with theater. You'll meet this guy named Michael, he'll give you the same advice. He's right."

"Ok."

"Sorry, but that's not why I think I'm here. So, this is gonna get weird before it starts to make sense."

"Honestly, dude, this is already really weird."

"Please don't call me dude."

"Oh." He looks a little stricken, and I have the urge to reach out and give him a hug. Strangely, I can't imagine what he's going through right now, but he looks like a hug would help. I don't do it because I have some weird idea in my head that the universe will explode if we touch each other. That might be about anti-matter, but I don't want anything to explode, so I hold back.

"My name's Heather," I volunteer, because I have the sense he wants to ask, but can't find the words. "It's the only name that fit. You will be amused to know that within seconds of thinking of the name, I realized it was partially because of Heather from 3rd grade." His face flushes a little bit; I'm referring to a girl we had a huge crush on back then, and he clearly remembers her.

"Oh, that's weird."

"Yeah, it is, but also, it really isn't. Ok, down to brass tacks. You remember Fatima?" There's that flush on his face again. Was I ever really this innocent? "C'mon, it's me, I know you remember Fatima because you're me and I'm you. It was on that multi-line BBS."

"Yeah, I know, that was like a year ago. I deleted that account."

"Ok," I say. Now we're getting somewhere. "But, you remember how you logged on as Fatima, and pretended you were a girl, always talking about cramps, and had that hot-chat with that guy?"

"Yeah. But I mean... everyone does that kind of thing. Probably most of the girls on that board are actually 40 year old dudes living in basements, or nerds like me with acne."

"Turns out, actually no, not everyone does that. You remember Geena's bra drawer? How badly you wanted to put one of those on?"

"Dude, shut up!" I shoot him a look. "Ok, fine, what should I call you then?" It's clear he's trying to distract me, though I doubt it's clear to him.

"Honestly, I'm not sure. Heather, I guess, just please not dude. Anyway, my point is that it turns out that not only does not everyone do that, but people who do do that frequently turn out to be trans. Which, apologies, is short for transgender, a term you're unlikely to hear again until a bunch of years from now. So you're welcome, you're ahead of the pack."

He ponders that for a moment, looking down at the bed. Then, "How does this affect me? Like, what does 'transgender' mean?" He pauses, eyeing me, surreptitiously trying to glance at my crotch without seeming to. "Wait, have you had a sex-change operation?"

I heave a mighty internal sigh. Whenever I imagined some scenario like this, I was always going back to my 5 year old self, not my 18 year old self. Not that that would honestly be any better, but I'm guessing I would have at least been more pliable at 5.

"No, I haven't, but you're on the right track. I'm gonna lay it out for you, because I'm pretty sure that one way or another, we're all gonna think this was a wild-ass dream and forget all about it. I figured out, aged 49, that our secret internal wish that we could be girl-shaped actually meant that I'm transgender. That is to say, that my internal sense of my gender doesn't match up with my external gender. In short form, I was born a boy, and always wanted to be a girl. I guess I'm here to tell you all about that." I look up at the ceiling as if there's some god in the sky laughing down at me. "I was really hoping that around now, the universe would snap me back to 2023 to worry about 2023 shit, but apparently there's more I have to do? I'm not sure how this works."

"Ok, wait," he said, apparently ignoring my subtle plea for this whole thing to be over. "I don't want to be a girl. I've never wanted to be a girl. I'm just attracted to girls, like every other normal guy. Girls are hot."

"Wrong on almost every point, but fair, and yes, girls are hot. That does sound like what I thought around this time." He pulls a face, like he just found an extra sour gummy bear. "Listen, just... You remember that sort of fantasy you used to have, lying in bed, imagining girls standing over you and examining your body like they were doctors, fascinated by your penis? And the fascination you are probably feeling this very moment for the way women don't have a penis?" He nods imperceptibly. "So, between that and a thousand other little things I've realized, it adds up to the fact that I'm... well, trans is the word I'm happy with right now, but if you take that as being basically a girl, you're not far off the mark."

He sits for a moment, hugging the wadded up blanket. Out the window, I can hear the jingling tags of our dog Buffy, a loveable but fairly ditzy golden retriever, as she goes off on some doggy errand in the night.

"And you know how you're always angry, and you don't even know why?" He nods again, more perceptibly this time. "Ok, so I have a theory that gender dysphoria might be part of it. Sorry... you know what euphoria is? Dysphoria is the opposite of that, and take it from me, it sucks, hard. I don't know what else it is, the anger I mean, because there was a lot." I pause because he looks like he wants to say something, then he seems to think better of it and nods to me to continue. "Yeah, I know, moving here was shitty, moving away from Megan and everyone was shitty, being at that school is shitty, all those rich brats are shitty, all of it is shitty." He's been nodding as I go through the list.

"So, all that is true. Those are all good reasons to be angry, though none of it is as personally targeted as you think. But, and here's the cheezy part -- you'll get it in about 20 years -- it gets better. Number one, you're going to Germany after you graduate, and it's hard to be away from home, but it's awesome. You do eventually have sex, and no spoilers, but you're not the oldest virgin in the world, not by a long shot. You'll meet a contender for that title, but that's a separate story (also, rather hot, in its way). Germany sorts out our head in a good way, and things are better after that."

From his face, I can tell he wants to interrupt, but apparently even at this age I wasn't terribly rude. I pause and look at him. In the subdued light of the room (just those pillar candles I used to burn, I realize), I can't really tell what's going through his head, which is not what I expected when I imagined having this conversation. Finally, he says, "Why do I need to know this? Am I," he takes a shaky breath, and I realize he's close to crying, "supposed to be a girl?"

His voice... oh god, his voice. I can feel, just at the edge of hearing, that tone that says maybe this is a thing he actually wants, which rocks me to my core. I didn't think it was possible to wrap my head around the idea at this age. I have spent the last few years going through my memories with a fine-tooth comb, and never once finding a moment where I said to myself, "I wish I could be a girl." That I was capable of forming such a thought based on a short conversation with my future self at the end of high school is blowing my mind. But I press on.

"I don't know, young me." He makes a face at that, but I press on. "Get over it, it's true. I don't know if you're supposed to be a girl. I know that I'm supposed to be, if not a girl, in a more girl-like body. I know that it took me a very long time to come to the realization that that was true, and that it was possible to be true." I fix him with a fairly earnest gaze. "I can't claim to know how this time-travel stuff works, but I'm pretty sure that paradox means anything I tell you can't affect my own future or I'd be at risk of imploding humanity or something." ("Sounds right," he mumbles under what I'm saying.) "So I don't think that you need to be a girl. We do pretty alright as a guy for all those years, but we never feel actually good about being male. Might it have been better if we'd figured it out way earlier? Dear god, I wish I'd gone through female puberty, but even this time-travel wheeze is too late for that." I pause; his eyes opened wide at the mention of female puberty. "What?"

"Is that possible?"

"Yeah. I mean, yes and no. Had I time-traveled back to when you were 10, maybe. But not now, your body's already done its growing. To be clear, I wish I had hips, you'll figure that one out in a few years."

"But... you have boobs."

"But I have boobs, true." I pause, trying to gather my thoughts. "Ok, a question for you. Are you revelling in being a weirdo at this point?"

"What? No! I hate it." He looks sullen for a moment, then seems to realize I'm not needling him. "I mean, I don't hate it, but no one likes me. It was finally starting to work out, then we had to move. I thought Megan... Well, I thought I might have had a chance with her, but..."

"But all those letters back and forth, and pretty much nothing, right?" I ask the question softly, because it's rushing back to me just how much I was hurting around this time.

"Yeah," he avoids looking at my face. "I just... I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing right now. It's all way too much, you know?" He looks back up at me, a bit of defiance crossing his face. "Do I get to ask you questions, or how does this work?"

"Ask away, but I'll warn you right now my memory sucks for a lot of stuff."

"Great." Sarcastic bastard. "Do Megan and I... ever... you know. I guess, work out?"

"Well, that I can remember, and the answer is no, but with an asterisk. Turns out she totally changes her mind once we hit college, but you don't know about it until most of a decade later, by which time you've grown so far apart it doesn't matter any more." I can see he's kind of crestfallen to hear this. "It's a really unsatisfying resolution to that whole situation," I finish, feeling bad for him.

"Oh," he says, this time looking down at his hands. "It doesn't sound like things actually work out very well for me, then." Gah, the absolute pathos in his voice. He's not crying, but it looks like he might be fighting it.

"Hey," I say softly, again fighting an urge to reach out and touch him. "Don't get so down, you can and do get chicks, if you'll excuse the expression, pretty much any time you want. But in a delightful twist of fate, you only want the ones who aren't particularly into you. It's a problem, but not like you're thinking, and it's not bad. Look, in college, in a few years here, you're going to get laid, many times. There are so many attractive people, and they're attracted to you. You're an attractive person." I ignore his scoff. "One funny thing, you're going to figure out that the people you're most attracted to are lesbians, in what's going to feel like a really cruel exercise of irony. It turns out you're right about that in the end, and I'm a lesbian now."

He closes his eyes as if I'm causing him pain. "I don't understand."

"No, that's fair, you pretty much won't be able to until about 2018, maybe 2019."

He looks up again, and I can see the anger mounting. I remember that anger. It seemed like it was almost all I could feel, aside from the depression.

"Sorry, that's not helpful. God, I'm being positively oracular here."

In a way that I cannot possibly describe, I start to feel like my time is running out.

"I guess... ok, let me try this. Here's what I wish I'd known, that would have actually made a difference. Women are not aliens, and they're not sex toys. Treat them like people, it turns out you share a lot more with them than you thought, plus, you know, humans are humans and we all deserve respect. Thinking everyone hates you is a seriously self-fulfilling prophecy; quit it. Maybe write this shit down, it's good stuff. You are the only person who can make you happy or -- and this one is huge -- unhappy. Look into zen, don't go crazy with it, but explore the idea of what you can control, and what you can't, and focus on the stuff you can control. I think you already know, runes work better than tarot, but ultimately neither does much for us. I get the feeling this madness is almost over," I say, standing again.

He stands as well, half-way off the bed. "Wait, you can't go. You're really me, from the future. What should I do? What do I do with my life? Will I fall in love? Will anyone fall in love with me?"

"Those are excellent questions, you've really got this time-travel trope thing down. You just forgot to ask about what horses to bet on."

And, like nothing ever happened, like I just woke from a wild dream, I find myself back in my room, sitting on my bed in 2023, just as the final track of Faith is winding its melancholy way to its melancholy conclusion. It's true, Bob, we've nothing left but faith.