Wren

My anxiety wakes me up at least an hour before my alarm, but I stay curled up in bed until I’m running late.

I forgot to lay out my clothes last night and I scramble to put something together. I’ve only been working at my new job for two months, but I’m already burnt out from having to pick out outfits. I miss my old office where I could just wear oversized sweatshirts and joggers all winter. My current office is nicer than that, but thankfully not corporate. At this point I remember that I’m also going to an event right after work, so I pair a vintage secondhand holiday sweater with a shiny red button up and black jeans.

I’d like to think I’m making all the girly fashion mags I read as a teen proud of my day-to-night friendly outfit. Since I’m running behind, I don’t have time to walk, so I catch the first bus on Chestnut Street that I see.

My manager stops by my cubical to say hello and check in since she was out yesterday. I fill her in about what I got done the day before and she says “perfect!” Next, I show her that our general grants email has zero new/unread messages— when I started there were over 9,000 (!!!!!). I’m still finding my footing after being laid off my last job so I’m glad my manager seemed impressed with that as well.

I get an email back from the Patient Navigator at the Jefferson Pride Program saying that they forwarded my information to a top surgery doctor and that someone from that office should be reaching out to me soon about a consultation.

I text a pic of the email to a few close friends.

“Huge!!!!!”

“Omg awesome!!!”

I haven’t told many of my friends that I want top surgery yet, so a couple of them heard about it for the first time from that photo. Their support is encouraging; I hadn’t realized how nervous I was to start talking about it. I can’t find anything on the internet about my particular Medicaid provider and gender affirming care. I think about how I’ll probably have to start fundraising in the new year.

My coworker Kate B. and I have lunch together again. We somehow miss each other on our way out of the office, but meet back up outside the little breakfast & lunch spot on the first floor of our building. We walk in and the person behind the counter calls us “ladies” in greeting. I order a grilled cheese on rye and Kate tires their one of their salads for the first time. The restaurant forgets to give Kate a fork, and give me a strange look when I ask for one for her.

Just like yesterday, we walk over to City Hall to see the Christmas Village. I order an apple cider and we take our food to the winter garden where there are big Adirondack chairs and log stump tables. I feed the little sparrows some crumbs from my sandwich and one gets so close to eating out of my hand before some strangers walk too close and break the spell. I mess around with my phone’s camera and capture a couple photos of the cute birds; I swear one poses on the perfect branch for me. I can’t remember the last time I took pictures with my “real” camera. I miss it.

Kate and I rode the carousel yesterday and we decide that we should definitely ride the Ferris wheel today. As we head towards it, we pass a busker singing a festive song about a blowjob. Unfortunately, the wheel is closed when we get there. We walk back around to the center of City Hall and I ask a stranger to take a photo of us in the weird holiday cutout next to Rocky. I order a hot chocolate with marshmallows and whip cream. Kate checks off the last of her gift shopping at one of the nearby artist stands.

I have trouble settling back to my tasks after lunch. It’s my last day in the office until January 2nd and my ADHD is ADHD- ing extra hard. My computer keeps acting up on top of everything; I restart it several times but it doesn’t help.

We share an office suite with another art org and someone from their team gets my pronouns wrong. I correct him and feel proud for saying something. I realize that in a few days it will be a year since I came out as nonbinary. Later, he brings me a sticky note that says “I’m sorry” and some M&Ms.

At some point in the afternoon the president/CEO of our org walks by and asks to see my sweater vest. I stand up and spin around to show her the extra little detail on the back.

I text Kate C. to see if she needs anything for the poetry reading later tonight. She requests a couple pens and we both realize that we haven’t seen each other since the Slutty Poems Night that I helped her cohost back in August.

At the end of the day, I have to submit my timesheet on my cell phone because my work computer is still not cooperating. Kate B. is waiting for me, but I end up staying 15 minutes after 5pm with my manager before she releases me saying, “okay, now get out of here!”

Our building is having a big shindig to celebrate 100 years and I hurry upstairs to catch up with Kate. The party started at 4pm and is in full swing by the time I make it. The party spans multiple spaces on the 15th floor; there’s a festive photobooth and free food & drinks. There are a few art venders too, and one of them calls out, “hey ladies,” as we’re leaving the photobooth.

If I had a nickel for every time I got called lady today, I'd have two nickels. Which isn't a lot, but it's weird that it happened twice.

The invitation promised us a guacamole buffet, which we don’t see until we find a weird little side room that I had no idea existed. At this point I’m running late, but I can’t help having another plate of chips and guac. Free shit just tastes better, ya know?

I grab a second cocktail and tuck a double chocolate chunk cookie in my jacket pocket as I head out. I walk the 25 minutes from work to Tattooed Mom on South Street while sipping my drink and listening to an audiobook (A Curious History of Sex by Kate Lister). I arrive to the bar at the same time as someone else, but the Tmoms employee knows me and waves me through the door without checking my ID. I feel famous.

I head upstairs to the back room where Kate C., greets me with a hug. Her and her wife Autumn have kindly saved me a seat. I remember to get out the pens from my backpack and Kate says, “I love that you brought ten when I asked for four” (I actually brought eight). One of the readers dropped out last minute and Kate gives me their drink ticket. I use it to try the bar’s espresso holiday drink—the edible glitter is a great touch—and I order the vegan smash burger with real cheese.

I see poet friends I haven’t seen in a long while. I receive compliments on my shirt (day-to-night, baby!!) and hair. My friends kill it on the mic. I’ve had enough to drink and switch to a Shirley Temple and water. More of my friends kill it on the mic. Kate reads last and shares an incredibly vulnerable and meaningful poem. I tear up and notice Autumn crying too, so I reach across the table to hold her hand. Kate reads more poems, but this time ones that have the whole room laughing. After the reading ends, I linger to chat with folks some more and to help clean up. I ask Autumn to take a few photos of me. I show off my secret on-theme socks. Some nice strangers offer to give me a ride to a SEPTA stop, but I decline.

As we’re walking out, I tease Autumn for reading poems about Kate, and our other friend Julia, but not about me. Kate backs me up, “I told her she should!” On the sidewalk the three of us hug goodbye in the rain. I listen to my audiobook again as I walk up 6th Street, through Washington Square, to Walnut Street.

I take the bus home, sleepy and sated.

Amber Wren (they/them) is a bisexual nonbinary neurodivergent writer and artist who has never made a decision in their life. They are passionate about queer art & literature, gardening, slow fashion, bees, and dessert. Find them most places @AMBERWRENWRITES.