I unknot myself from the human pretzel that Eileen has me folded into. I groan and she says, “Not bad for your second session. Now, let’s work on centering yourself.” She leads into a series of breathing exercises and I start to feel the glow that is becoming more familiar—but I just can’t seem to make the connection to it. I sigh and Eileen says, “You are still trying too hard, Joy. Give it time…you will get there. You are much closer than you were even yesterday…”

I sigh again and roll up my mat. I don’t even bother changing out of my yoga gear before I leave. I just grab my bag with my ballet stuff in it and hurry down the street to the ballet studio. I change into my ballet stuff and timidly go into the private mirrored studio where Madame Rose is waiting for me.

I look around Christi’s room. It is sort of what I expected a teenage girl’s room would like—of course, I have never been in one, but have seen a few on TV. Anyway, it is all soft pastels and pillows. Posters of a few girl’s bands and few dolls are the main decorations. Christi breaks into my appraisal of her space and says, “Come on silly. I want to see how you look!”

I sigh and ask, “Where would you like me to change?” She rolls her eyes and says, “Well, right here, silly. It is just us girls, after all…” I sort of shake my head but pull out a pair of the new jeans and a ‘paper white’ top—it is one of the ‘cropped’ ones—which just means it is too short to tuck in. I take off my boy jeans-revealing the lacy VS panties that I forgot I had on—of course, I blush and Christi giggles as she stresses that she loves them. I take off the polo shirt, revealing the silky white camisole, with all its lace and the flower on front. Christi asks, “So, you have one of those on at work all the time? You should totally unbutton another button and let it show—that is CUTE!” I groan and pull on the shirt. I quickly button it up, now used to the buttons on the other side. The shirt is soft and feels glorious compared to the rough polo shirt I had on before.

I take the jeans and pull them up my legs. I sigh in contentment as the soft denim stokes my legs. They are a thousand times softer than my boy jeans—and the slight stretch in the material makes them really comfy. I know I am hooked—I don’t see how I will ever be able to wear ‘normal’ jeans again. I tuck in the shirt and button and zip the jeans. I stand there and Christi has me turn around.

She says, “That is perfect for you in “boy mode”. We are the same size—except you are a 2 short and I am a 2 average. Are you willing to play around with some accessories, just for here? It would be fun!” I shrug and say, “I guess…if it will make you happy…and no one finds out…” She smiles and says, “OK. Hang on.”

She pulls out a glitzy gold chain belt—it is only like a half inch wide and way longer than it needs to be. She has me feed it through the loops and let the extra length just hang down after I buckle it. Then she takes out a pinkish scarf thingy that is a big long loop. I am told that it is ‘coral’ and it is an ‘infinity’ scarf. She loops it around my neck and I notice the sparkle from the sequins as she does. She undoes the buttons on my shirt and just leaves it open—fully showing my camisole under it and the scarf.

She goes to one of her drawers and pulls out a pair of short, lacy socks and has me put them on. She says, “We are even the same shoe size. It is great!” She goes to her closet and finds a pair of black booties with a really high heel. She says, “This is my favorite pair of booties for jeans. They are called “photogenic booties” by Impo. Some people call them shooties. Anyway…put these on and let’s see.” I say, “Are you sure, those are really high heels and they are really pointy…” She giggles and says, “Well, the heels are four inch—but it is a 3/4 inch platform, so they are not really much higher than the ones you have been wearing at work. They are more of a stiletto than yours, but I have faith you can handle it. It is not like we are going on a hike or anything…”

I give her a disgruntled look and put them on. I tie them and stand up. The heel, of course sinks into the deep pile of her carpet. She takes my arm and leads me into her bathroom, where the tile floor gives me a more solid surface to navigate. I practice a few steps and find that I can master them OK after a bit. I am not going to be walking any model runways any time soon—but I won’t break my neck.

Christi then says, “Sit down here at my vanity, Terri. I want to try something…”

I am on my two-hundredth plié—no lie. My thighs are burning and there is no relief in sight—at least I get no sense from Madame Torture that she is going to let up. I start focusing on my breathing—like in yoga—to distract myself from the growing pain. The more plies I do, the more I focus on my breathing and the closer I get to connecting to my center. When I hit three hundred plies—I connect…and the world goes…psychedelic!

Christi says, “I don’t have the proper foundation for your complexion. As a blonde, yours is lighter than mine, so we will just do this the more natural way…” I give her a dubious look and ask, “Do what the natural way?” She giggles and says, “Your makeup, of course.” I put my hands up and say, “Wait a minute—isn’t that going a bit too far? I mean, you already have me dressed up like a Barbie doll—which is nice, by the way—but makeup?” I shake my head and say, “I don’t know…”

She lightly bats my hands away and says, “It will wash off, silly. It isn’t like I am tattooing onto you, or anything. I just want to see what it looks like…” I sigh and give in. There is no arguing with her when she has her mind set to something. I sit quietly while she explains that she is putting on eye shadow in blues and greens to complement my eyes and hair. Then she adds eyeliner and mascara. Finally, some lip stain, lip gloss, and a little blush on my cheeks. Then she has me turn to the mirror—the difference is amazing. My eyes ‘pop’, my lips are ‘there’, and my face is…pretty.

I am completely disoriented by all of the wild colors undulating in front of my eyes. I guess I know what it is like to trip on LSD now. I grab onto the bar harder and lean up against it. I hear Madame Rose ask, “Joy, are you alright? I know that was a lot of plies, but…” All I see is a weird seething mass of bright colors where she should be standing… She says, “Stay right there, I will get Sister Gwen…”

Christi says, “Terri, you are beautiful. You should wear makeup all of the time!” I shake my head in shock…just staring at myself in the mirror. Christi says, “Terri! Look at me! You are gorgeous—how do you feel?” I continue to stare at the mirror and say in a small, shocked voice, “Confused. I like how it looks, but…I can’t…”

Ten terrifying minutes later, Eileen comes in and takes me by the hands. She slowly sits me on the floor and says in a calming voice, “Gwen is on her way over. She will be here in just a few more minutes. She told me that this might happen—although, I don’t think we were expecting it quite so soon. Close your eyes…is that any better?” I close my eyes and the colors are more muted, but still there.” I nod my head and say, “A little. It is still…hypnotic—almost nauseating. All of these swirling colors…”

Christi is painting my nails—finger and toe—a bright peacock blue trying to convince me that it is OK to like myself this way. Her Mom comes in without us even hearing it. To say she is surprised is likely the understatement of the year. She comes in Christi’s room and says, “Christi, Terri. I have supper—I was able to finish a little earlier than I… Oh…my… What is this?” She sits down and looks at me—then at Christi who is putting the cap on the nail polish—having finished the third coat… I am sitting there, not really processing the fact that my nails are now blue—still shell-shocked as I am at my face in the mirror…and the fact that I like it.

I sense M.S. coming in the studio…I don’t have a better word for it. I just know it is her… Her colors are more solid…steady…organized. I gravitate towards those and she comes over and says, “Joy, Child, you have connected to your inner energy stream. This allows you to visualize external energy streams. We will discuss all of that later. I was not expecting you to progress quite so quickly. I guess our practice had you further along than I thought and the yoga and ballet was enough to push over the edge. I know this is confusing for you, right now. I want you to look inward…find that inner glow and concentrate only on that. Breathe in and out…all that is there is that inner golden glow…nothing else… Breathe in…and…out…”

Ms. M. is looking at me, obviously worried. She asks, Christi, “What in the world were you two doing? Did Terry…or Terri…I don’t know whether to think of him as a her now…want this?” Christi shakes her head and says, “I pushed a little…I just wanted to see what…she…would look like. I was going to wash it right off, honest!” I pull myself together as much as I can and focus on Ms. M. as I say, “I like how I look—how can that be? I am a guy…but…I like looking like this…”

I breathe in…and out… I focus just on that…and calm down enough that I can focus more on myself… I find that I can now see my inner glow as much as I can feel it. I focus on that glow…on that and breathing… Slowly, the other colors fade…and all I see is that golden glow inside of me… M.S. says, “Open your eyes, Child.” I timidly open my eyes and see…M.S. smiling at me. I take a shaky breath and say, “Oh, M.S., that was terrifying! I never want to do that again!”

Mom arrives twenty minutes later. Ms. M. had called her as soon as she knew that I was alright—well, as alright as I was going to be. She comes in and sort of gasps when she sees me. She says, “Terry, Sweetie, are you OK? What is going on?” Christi and I go through it all again and, while I have settled down enough to be coherent, my nerves are still rattled… I finish by saying, “I don’t know what is wrong with me, Mom. I like wearing these clothes…and I like the way I look with makeup on…”

Mom hugs me and says, “Well, I have to admit—you look very pretty. I think we are going to need to seek some professional help in this, though. Son, I love you no matter what—you know that, right?” I nod, and say, “I know, Mom… I just feel like some sort of freak…” Right at that moment, my stomach growls loudly and everyone laughs… the tension somewhat broken, Christi says, “Well, at the very least, you have a freak in your stomach!”

M.S. says, “We will discuss that later…your defense is in two hours…are you OK to do it? I can get it postponed if you need me to.” I shake my head and say, “No, this was just supposed to be a distraction before I went—it turned out to be more of one than I expected…”

Two hours later, I am sitting in a small room with a panel of professors, led by Ms. Braun (actually a professor and a Doctor). I am scrubbed clean and polished up…and eerily calm after the incident earlier… The panel plies me with questions and I calmly and confidently answer them all. After an hour of grilling that would have done the Spanish Inquisition proud, the group puts their heads together and whispers for a few minutes, then Ms. Braun says, “Congratulations, Dr. Rousseau!