New Year’s is supposed to be about a time for forgetting old acquaintances, but sometimes it’s also about remembering old loves. Is there a spot in your heart for "the one who got away"? Have you ever said to yourself, "I’d do anything for a second chance with her/him"? Here’s a letter from someone who did.

Dear Lisa,

I’m really hoping you saw "K. Donovan" on the return address of this letter and thought "Hey, it’s from Kevin. I haven’t thought about him in a while. I wonder what this is about." But I know it’s been a while so maybe your reaction was "Who the hell is K. Donovan?" So I’ll try to jog your memory, and hope it’s a happy one.

We met on December 31 1999, at Rob and Tina’s New Year’s party to celebrate the End of the Millennium. (Even though it wasn’t the actual end, but everyone was calling it that, so why argue it.) I’d gotten out a couple of years before, but I was still hanging with some people I knew from college. Rob was close friends with my old study partner. You were still a junior; your roommate Sue used to live with Tina before she graduated. I was standing at the punch bowl and you came up behind me and said, "Nice hair." The brokerage I’d started with still wanted clients to think it was hip and cool even after the momentum of the dot-com fiasco was nearly gone, so I’d kept my hair long. At work, I’d pull it back into one of those ubiquitous nineties ponytails, but on my own time like at parties, I’d let it fall loose and hang to just below my shoulders. I turned around and said thanks and I saw you there. Your eyes were a sparkling hazel that drew me in. It’s funny; I’d never really thought of hazel as a beautiful color for eyes before, but after seeing yours all the innocent baby blue and sexy emerald and mysterious violet and exotic amber eyes might as well be lifeless pale grey. The sparkle, the little iridescent flecks, and the way they held my soul when you smiled - your eyes captured me. I can still picture them perfectly, even today.

Then you spoke to me, and my brain had to zoom out to see you in full. You said, "Hi, I’m Lisa Pastorelli." You were wearing a causal outfit of a hunter green sweater over a simple black knit pencil skirt, but it looked like high fashion on you. Your jet-black hair was in a simple bob style and the way it curved to follow under the shape of your ears was beyond cute. It took me a moment to find my words. I said, "Hi. I’m Kevin Donovan, and my hair is Sandy Brown." You said "Pleased to meet you both," and gave a little laugh, and even if it was just to be polite it showed that you got my joke, that stupid little joke that my mother always used to make when I was little, and you got it! I poured you a cup of punch and as I handed it to you, our fingers brushed each other — it was like touching a live wire. A sort of shiver ran through me, and I looked up and you looked up and our eyes met again and for one moment the universe collapsed and I knew there was something special between us.

We spent the rest of that party talking to each other, not really mingling much with the rest of the revelers. Since it was New Year’s we talked a lot about our goals, our dreams and our plans for the future. The more I learned about you, the more I knew you were The One. You had a compassionate heart — you were planning on continuing your education at State through to getting your master’s in social work and you hoped on getting a job working to get poor children out of bad situations and into good ones. Since I was just a money guy who mostly helped rich white guys get richer, it made me feel a little ashamed that your dream was to make the world a better place. But we also talked about friends, about family, about how we were both lapsed Catholics, and the time just flew by. Before we knew it, Rob was on a chair getting everyone’s attention for the big countdown. And when the clock struck midnight, we had our first kiss. It felt natural and comfortable to hold you in my arms, but at the same time it was beyond exciting. I knew I was falling in love and it was wonderful. I was so lost that I forgot to ask for your number when it was time to leave, but you took the initiative and gave it to me anyway.

I could barely wait until the afternoon of the next day to call you. I was so nervous though, I hung up the first time it rang, then called back and when someone answered I pretended that wasn’t me before. I never was any good at lying, so you saw through me immediately. We talked for hours, and eventually made a date to get dinner that Sunday, which went better than most first dates, since we were already so comfortable with each other. We talked on the phone nearly every other day from that point, taking turns about who would be the caller. Even after you had to go back to school, we kept in touch. We went out together every weekend, and a few occasional weeknights - sometimes it wasn’t anything really date-like and I’d drive you on some errand or something, but it was really just all about spending time together and I really didn’t care what we did. We got very good at kissing; the only time it was awkward was once in the height of passion I let my hand stray a little lower than the small of your back and you froze up on me. You weren’t ready to go any further, so I backed off and that was fine with me.

We were going to have a date on Valentine’s Day. I was getting ready to cook dinner for you. Maybe I’d get you to spend the night, but that wasn’t my goal. I was planning on telling you how I felt. I knew you could tell but neither of us had spoken those specific words. My heart was overflowing with a thousand little voices all shouting "I love you" and it felt like I’d explode if I didn’t let one of them out. I was going to wait until after dinner and then tell you that ever since the day I met you, I knew you were the one for me. I knew that I would love you as long as I lived. I didn’t need to hear you say it back to me; I could sense that you weren’t quite ready. But I had to say it myself.

I didn’t get the chance. February 12th you called me and sounded upset. You said you needed to see me. We had to talk. I picked you up and you didn’t say where you wanted to go, so we just went to the park and sat on a bench by the duck pond. I took your hand and tried to ask what was bothering you, but you shrunk away. You told me this story of your last boyfriend who got very possessive and dangerous and kind of stalked you when you broke up with him, and you had to get a restraining order. You got that I wasn’t violent like him, but you were still a little afraid of all guys. That’s why you hadn’t gone very far with me physically. I said it didn’t matter, and I could wait for you to be ready, but you wouldn’t let me. You said it wasn’t fair to me, but you just couldn’t be in a serious relationship with anyone. You knew that I had strong feelings for you and would never be able to keep things between us light and casual. You told me you didn’t want to see me anymore. I was devastated. There was nothing I could say to change your mind. I begged you; couldn’t we at least try the "just friends" thing? But you wanted a clean break. I took you home and held your hand as long as you’d let me, and stole one last kiss before letting you go forever. And I never got to tell you "I love you." I needed to say it, but I couldn’t. It wouldn’t have helped. You weren’t in a place where you wanted to hear it.

But a couple of weeks later I could hold it in no longer, and I wrote you a letter. I told you I loved you and I missed you and if there was any way you could see to give me a second chance, would you please please please take me back? To say it didn’t go over well would be an understatement. I got a call from Tina who’d heard from Sue that you’d gotten my letter and it freaked you out! I guess something in my tone reminded you too much of Creepy Stalker Guy and it sent you into a panic. Tina told me in no uncertain terms to stay the hell away from you — don’t call, don’t write, don’t go anywhere you were likely to be. Hurting you was the last thing I wanted to do. I cried myself dry that night. As much as I needed to see you, to feel you in my arms, to be held by you, even though there was an emptiness inside me that only you could fill, the only way I could prove to you that I truly loved you and wasn’t just another dangerously obsessed stalker was to let you go and stay away. Your welfare was more important to me than my own.

So I kept my feelings for you to myself. Ok, I’ll admit there was many a night when I gripped my pillow tight and whispered to it, "I love you, Lisa." I was lonely and miserable for the rest of 2000 and most of 2001. I just poured any extra energy into my work. I was getting good at it and they promoted me, so maybe it was worth it, but I didn't really care. However the economy wasn’t always so hot, so some days the market did badly and my customers would take it out on me. And those days were the worst. I’d get home feeling depressed, and inevitably there would come a moment when I’d realize that what I needed more than anything right then was to hold you until the darkness passed, but then I’d have to remind myself that there was no way that was ever going to happen and I’d sink even lower.

Around October of 2001, one of the guys from my office needed a date for his girlfriend’s sister and I was the only one he could find. She wasn’t you, but she was kind of cute, and provided enough of a distraction that I didn’t have to think about you all the time. It showed me that even if I wasn’t going to get my emotional needs met without you, I could still find someone that could provide intellectually stimulating conversation, and potentially satisfy my physical desires too. So when Dave’s wife’s sister (I don’t even remember her name) went back to wherever it was she came from, (it might have been Houston) I took up a new hobby of going to bars and clubs to meet women for shallow and meaningless things.

I wasn’t paying close enough attention though, because by around July of 2002 I’d gone on many dates with this one woman without seeing anyone else in between. I had a girlfriend; it just sort of snuck up on me. Her name was Heather. She was a paralegal in the law office where one of my clients was a partner. She was tall, blonde, skinny, bookish - sort of the opposite of petite, dark, curvy, extroverted you; I don’t know whether I did that on purpose subconsciously. She was a nice person, and everything worked for us on paper, but there just wasn’t any real spark there. We got along fine, our tastes were compatible, and the sex was effective, but I didn’t have any kind of passion for her. I liked her, but that was about as strong as my emotions could get. But I didn’t mind — it was adequate. I wasn’t lonely, and most of my needs were being met. I got her a pair of diamond earrings for Valentine’s Day in 2003, and she teased me asking when I was going to get her the ring to go with them. I told her I hadn’t really thought about marriage, but if she wanted to get engaged we could. I was very comfortable with her and would be fine with it if she wanted us to continue. For some reason, that wasn’t the romantic proposal she was looking for. She got mad and wanted me to at least tell her I loved her and wanted to spend the rest of our lives together. I said I didn’t think I could say that and still be honest, but I didn’t think I’d mind spending my life with her. We had a loud, knockdown argument and everyone was left in tears. She kicked me out and I never looked back.

I felt a little weird that I wasn’t sad enough about the breakup. I just spent more time working and paid more attention to keep my dating casual. In September, the market took a turn and I was in the right place at the right time and scored a major deal for a client - my commission was over three million dollars! With a few prudent investments I could be set for life! I got a flashier car, and starting going after flashier women. Sure they were fun, but only when they were spending my money. I only kept at it for a few months before it wore me out. On New Year’s Day 2004, I sat down and took a good look at myself and since I had all this money and it wasn’t making me happy I tried to figure out what I wanted out of life and how to go about getting it. As soon as I asked myself the question, I knew the answer. "What do I want? Lisa." I just stopped trying not to need you and it came flooding back to the surface. If there was any way I could see you again, I’d do whatever I had to. Ok, that wasn’t quite true. There was no way that seeing you would be enough. If I was ever in the same room as you again, I would want to throw my arms around you and never let go. So I didn’t trust myself to go looking for you on my own.

This is the part where you’re going to get mad. I hired a private detective to find you, check up on you, and find out how your life was going. Please try to understand it from my side. I knew that if I sought you out myself it could look like I was being Creepy Stalker Guy, so I hired an impartial third party. The theory was they’d look you up, find out whether you were available, and if so we’d then arrange for you and me to "accidentally" run across each other and catch up on old times, and maybe one thing would lead to another and we’d have our happily ever after.

They got back to me a couple months later and said they’d found you, but there were complications. I met with the guy and he showed me some photos and it was you — the face that was etched on my heart. You were a little older but it didn’t show. You’d changed your hairstyle, and that was about it. I looked through the report they’d typed up about you, you were living in California and working as a social worker, mostly attached to a shelter for runaway teens. I asked what the complications were, since I didn’t see anything bad in the report. Were you married or something? He said the shelter mainly dealt with gay kids who’d run away because their parents had kicked them out. He passed me a brief from one of his operatives, who’d interviewed you pretending to be a reporter. When she asked how you got interested in working with gay teens, you’d said that you knew what they were going through, since you had trouble yourself coming out as a lesbian. I had to read that several times. Holy crap! How was this possible? I read some more of the report, where she said she kind of flirted with you and took you out to lunch to ask more personal questions about your role as a lesbian. When she asked if you always knew you were gay you said that you’d tried to be straight when you were younger, but you’d tried men and didn’t like it. I did see a glimmer of hope when she said that you mentioned that there was one guy you almost could have loved, but you couldn’t take the relationship beyond kissing — the idea of touching a penis just repulsed you. The one you could have loved had to have been me, right? There had to be a way to make this work. I paid the guy to continue having people watching you every so often, and put some work into coming up with a solution.

I guess it was obvious, really. If you could love me but not my penis, I’d just have to get rid of it. Since you’d discovered yourself as a lesbian, the only way I’d have a chance with you would be if I was a woman. Was I willing to make that sacrifice? For you, in a heartbeat - but that wasn’t the deal. I wouldn’t be trading my manhood for a future with you; I’d be trading my manhood for a chance at a future with you. It was not a decision to make lightly. I spent several months researching the possibilities — what surgeries are available, what kind of hormone therapy would be needed, how much if any of it is reversible, and what kind of paperwork is involved. In the mean time, I had my spies looking into seeing if you were already in a committed relationship, and if they could to try to see who you’d been dating to determine if you had a specific body type you were attracted to in a woman. If I was going to do this, the least I could do is stack the deck in my favor. It turns out the one factor most of your dates had in common was that they were never taller than you. Since you were 5’8” and I was 5’10” it could be a problem. I consulted with some plastic surgeons and asked if there was an operation that could make me 3 inches shorter. I found one doctor, a top cosmetic osteopath from New York, who said there’s a procedure that cuts the long bones in your arms and legs and takes a piece out then rejoins the cut ends, but that can’t go three inches. To really go that short, they’d have to mess with the backbone and take out a disc to merge two vertebrae together. It’s generally felt that the risks to the patient outweigh any benefit, so they don’t do it unless you’re some kind of freakishly tall giant. It would officially be unethical for him to perform it on me, so I’d have to pay him extra and find a facility outside the US where it could be done. He recommended a hospital in South America he’d used before, and I told him I’d start making arrangements. Then and there I realized I was going to go through with it.

So it was that in early January of 2005 I was in a country that I can’t identify for you meeting with six doctors whose names I can’t tell you to have some questionable procedures done. A general plastics guy did a liposuction on my waist and some sculpting on my posterior. There was a guy from LA that did an amazing facial feminization procedure smoothing my forehead, raising my eyebrows just a little, bringing out my cheekbones, giving me a cute little nose, shaving off my Adam’s apple, narrowing my jawline and pulling back my chin. Then a cosmetic dentist went in there and gave me all new smaller teeth. The bone guy did the height reduction procedure and also cut my hipbones and reset them wider, and took out my lowest pair of ribs. A specialist tightened the ligaments in my hands and feet to make them smaller. Finally, the face guy’s partner gave me an impressive set of C-cup implants. The one thing I couldn’t get anyone to do is skip the one-year "real life test" period they make you wait before they’ll rearrange your genitals. I had to go on hormones and live as a woman for a year, and then get a psychiatrist to sign off that I had "gender dysphoria disorder" before I could get anyone to build me a vagina. But I could get all that other physical restructuring done, and they did agree to cut off my testicles after I froze a bunch of sperm, just in case. After reading a number of autobiographies from other transsexuals, I knew exactly what to tell the psychiatrist and I’d seen an endocrinologist and gotten my hormones prescribed before heading south. I preferred American quality control over random Third World drugs.

I was in the hospital down there for two months, and after I was recovered enough to come home I still had six months of physical therapy, interspersed with painful electrolysis sessions. At this point, home was a cozy little bungalow I’d bought a couple hours up the coast from you. I wanted to be close, as a reminder of why I was doing this, but not so close that I’d run into you prematurely. Legally, I was now Kathleen Anne Donovan, female. I’d traded my Italian sportscar for a Japanese compact, since I wasn’t trying to live like a millionaire. I got a part-time job working in a bookstore. My investments were making me enough money to live on, but my shrink wanted me in a situation where I was out meeting people instead of withdrawing like a hermit. My doctors had done a great job. I passed flawlessly, even though I was still learning how to walk and talk like a girl. I had lost a lot of weight while I was in the hospital and was still fairly frail, so I think that helped. I told the other people at the bookstore that I’d been in a car accident and had just gotten out of the hospital, and that seemed to cover for any physical mistakes I might be making.

I was driving twice a week to meet with my "beauty tutor," a stylist I’d hired to teach me the ways of women. I’d been growing my hair out all this time, so it was easy to get it cut into a more feminine style with a fringe of bangs on my new forehead. She showed me how to rearrange it into a braid or a ponytail, or a simple updo, and how to curl it when I wanted more body, or just to be playful or sexy. I was fortunate that my new face was pretty enough that I didn’t need a lot of makeup every day, but she taught me how to use everything so I could create an appropriate evening look if I needed to. She helped me get my ears pierced and my eyebrows threaded, and taught me about fashion and how to go shopping, and helped me get fitted for my first bra. She conspired with my physical therapist to make me walk in heels all the time. It was weird, though. Wearing heels actually made it easier to deal with being shrunken. It was still weird, since my arms were shorter, but at least my eyes were in the same place. They had me in heels so much when my feet were recovering from their surgery, that now it’s hard for me to stand barefoot with my soles flat on the ground, but I learned that I was now 5’ 6 1/2" if I did. The world seemed like such a larger place now.

The other major adjustment I had to make was getting used to the hormones. Sure they were working to shape my body, but they were also messing with my mind. I had to deal with wild mood swings, where I’d just start crying for no reason every so often. They also messed with my libido. Because when they make a vagina they basically turn the penis inside-out, my doctor wanted me to keep my hormones from shrinking my penis skin too much so I’d have decent depth. He told me to stimulate myself to erection at least once a day. At first, all I needed to do was think about you and stroke the little guy and it was enough. Then it got to where I had to put on my sexiest lingerie and get in front of a mirror to turn myself on. After a while that wasn’t enough, and the doctor told me to get a vibrator and stimulate my prostate. When that stopped working by itself, he put me on Viagra. Then I had a day where I’d just gotten my water bottle replaced and when I went to stimulate myself, images of the delivery guy with his ripped back muscles and tight little buns jumped into my head. My hormone-addled brain then pretended my vibrator was him, and it actually worked. But to keep that sort of thing from happening again, after that I always used one of the reconnaissance photos of you my PI had given me. (You probably didn’t want to know that, but you deserve total honesty.)

The other thing the hormones did was augment my new girlish figure. I got just enough fat added to my hips and behind that it gave me a perfect heart-shaped derriere. I caught a lot of guys watching it wiggle as I improved my female walking style. When I started this, I decided that I didn’t want to have to deal with outside padding — I didn’t want to wear crossdresser clothes; I wanted to wear woman clothes. But this meant I got my breast implants before I started hormones. So I got a lot of looks from people at the bookstore when I started growing my own breasts on top of the implants. At first it was just larger nipples, but then the rest of the breast was growing in and after a few months, my 36C bras were way too tight and I was spilling out of the cups. Instead of moving up to D cups, I had my doctor reduce the implants to about half the size. We’d expected this sort of thing, so I was given adjustable implants that had a little tube on them the doctor could get to and change the amount of saline. So I went from C up to D down to B then they grew some more back up to C and when they hit D again I had the implants taken out completely. So now I’m smaller than I was at first, but it’s all me and it feels better. I’m a small C or a very full B. I have some B push-ups that give me incredible cleavage. When I’d healed from getting the implants out, I went to a dermatologist who used lasers to clean up the scars from all my surgeries. The little marks on my arms and legs had made me a little self-conscious about wearing revealing clothing.

Besides my beauty lessons, I also hired a "feminine deportment consultant" who’s in the business of teaching men to become women. She helped me fill in some of the holes in my behavior. I needed a lot of work on my voice. They’d done something to raise my pitch when they shaved off my Adam’s apple, but there’s more to a feminine voice than that. She worked with me intensely for four weeks, then cut it back to a phone call every three days. I needed to be taught simple things like what to do with my hands while walking or shopping or talking to a friend. We covered how to sit and stand and drive in a skirt, proper table manners so I didn’t eat like a savage, and the essentials of flirting. One of the men at the bookstore asked me out on a date and when my shrink strongly recommend I take him up on it, I had to get my coach to show me how I’d be expected to act, and what things not to do if I didn’t want to give him the wrong idea. We had dinner and a movie; it was ok although he had a hard time trying not to have a conversation with my boobs. He’d been a gentleman so I gave him a chaste kiss goodnight. It didn’t really do anything for me, but I let him take me out again since it was better than sitting at home alone. I think I was slipping into old habits. I didn’t even need the free meal. Our second date was a picnic in the park and at one point he reached over and kissed me and I was so surprised I let him, and he got his hand onto my breast and started stroking and it felt very good, so I opened my mouth a little and let him fondle me more and his tongue was in my mouth and I was starting to enjoy things when he laid me down on the blanket and got on top of me and I felt that erection through his pants poking me in the thigh and I had to stop him. I didn’t want to get a reputation as a tease, so I when he took me home I invited him in and told him that it really couldn’t go any further. He wanted to know why, so I had to tell him I wasn’t completely a woman. He didn’t believe me, and made me show him. I lifted up my dress and lowered my panties and it was very humiliating. He laughed, and said he wouldn’t have believed it. I begged him not to tell anyone, and he wanted me to give him a reason — I was on the point of offering to do something really stupid. I think the hormones were just making me too emotional to think clearly, but then I remembered that I had like a jillion dollars and really didn’t need that job. I kicked him out of my house and told him to go have sex with himself. I called the store and left a message on the machine that I no longer would be working there, and they could keep my last paycheck since I was leaving without notice.

I called my realtor and said I’d be selling my house. I moved to the next town over and rented an apartment that would give me a little more space. My shrink really didn’t like it, but I told her that if most girls had the luxury to be able to chuck everything and move when some guy was making things uncomfortable, they would. I didn’t like feeling small and weak and knowing any old horny man could overpower me. I went to the pound and bought a dog. She’s a mutt, mostly brown with white patches. She’s not too small, and not too big. Her name is Hazel, because she reminds me of coffee creamer and she’s a nut. (And I like to think of your eyes.) I also enrolled in a women’s self defense class, but I couldn’t stick with it because I was too nervous about being caught in the locker room. There’s this trick I found on the internet where you can use superglue to hold your penis back and wrap your empty scrotum around it to look like labia, that I’d used to go to the beach a couple times, but I wasn’t sure it would hold up in a shower. I had to get a self defense video to show me what to do instead. My fashion and femininity lessons were over, and my physical therapy was down to once a week, and with no job I had all this free time and my psychiatrist preferred me to be out there mixing with people in social settings. I thought to myself "What would Lisa do?" and decided to find somewhere that I could work as a volunteer to do my part at improving the world around us.

I settled on working at a soup kitchen that feeds poor and homeless people. They start you washing dishes as a sort of test of your commitment, but I was coming in every day, and even though it was hot and disgusting and thankless, I kept at it. My soul was probably blackened enough from helping rich people get richer all those years that it wasn’t just dishes I was cleaning. After a couple months, my hazing or initiation or whatever you want to call it was over and I got moved to where I rotated between working to prepare the food or to serve it. I preferred serving, but so did everyone. I got to know the other volunteers fairly well. There was this guy who was there working off a community service sentence who hit on me constantly. I let him because he was a stockbroker, and it was refreshing to have someone to talk about the market with again. I flirted back a few times but let him know that there was no way I was ever going out with him. I hope Kevin wasn’t that sleazy back in the day. My favorite person wasn’t one of the volunteers. Pete was a sweet old man in his sixties who’d been in the Vietnam War and it messed him up. He worked sporadically on gray-market construction jobs, so I’d only see him when things weren’t going well for him, but he always had a big smile for me when he came in, and would even poke his head into the kitchen if he didn’t see me out front. He’s the only person I let call me "Kathy," although it’s mainly because I got tired of correcting him. He had a big brown mostly shepherd/lab mix named Gus who’d come with him and wait patiently on the sidewalk outside without needing to be tied or anything. Pete got in trouble for trying to slip him some table scraps, so I’d taken to putting a baggie with some of Hazel’s food into my purse and slipping it to him. I tried to give him money a couple times, but his pride wouldn’t let him take it. He wouldn’t even accept an offer to let him sleep on my couch on a cold night. He came in last July and was looking horrible. I tried to make small talk and ask how Gus was doing and he said he’d been hit by a truck. I didn’t care that the rules say we’re not allowed to touch them; I had to drop my giant spoon and run around to give Pete a hug. I offered again to take him home with me, but he said he had a place to stay. That night he stepped in front of a bus. At the point I realized that I needed to do more. I started rearranging my monies so I could give more to worthwhile charities.

Last September, my year was up. I’d passed my Real Life Test, and shown everyone I could successfully live full time as a woman, and I got the okay to go ahead with my Sexual Reassignment Surgery. I was tempted to hire a prostitute to give my last piece of maleness a farewell cruise, but that would be too much like a regret, and I couldn’t allow any of those. I’d made arrangements to fly to one of the best surgeons in the country. He explained exactly what was entailed, and made sure I wanted to go through with it, and then I was wheeled off and prepped and I came to in a hospital far from home in a drug-induced haze all alone and saw a pile of gauze on my crotch and cried. It was stress more than anything, I think. When I was less out of it, the doctors guided me through my recovery. The first time I saw my new equipment, I wept for joy. I was complete, not on the edge between male and female anymore. There were still dressings and things around it, but she was there, Little Miss V. I needed to stay for another couple weeks, but they released me, along with a big list of instructions on the care and feeding of my new friend. I won’t get into the gory details here; just feel lucky you're natural and don’t have to dilate.

When I got home, I picked up Hazel at the kennel and the first thing she did was stick her nose in my lap. I wonder if she knew her Mommy was different now. About a month after my operation, everything was mostly healed, so I found myself doing things that would cause me to be naked in front of strangers: I had a spa day with a full treatment, including a mud bath and a massage, I got a membership at a health club, I went to the beach and changed in the public cabana, and I even went to a nude beach once. It wasn’t so much that I wanted to show off as it was like this great weight had been lifted and I wasn’t ashamed of my body anymore.

So finally I was ready. Last month I moved again. I’m now living across town from you, over in the Stansmore Building on Fifth Street. I’ve opened offices uptown for The Hazel Foundation, an instrument I can use to channel funds to charitable causes, and the new place is not too far I can still help out at the same soup kitchen. I think I’ll like living here. I'm still exploring but I've already found an awesome Thai place that delivers, and I'm working on picking out my favorite jazz club.

Now for the reason I wrote this letter. As you may know, the Mayor is hosting a Black and White Ball in the Plaza Hotel on New Year’s Eve as a fundraiser for the new Children’s Hospital. Even if the holiday didn’t resonate with us already, it feels like an appropriate time for starting something new. New Years are for New Beginnings. I’ve reserved a table, and I’d love for you to join me, if you’re free. I'm sure you've got an LBD so don't try to claim you have nothing to wear. I’m hoping this letter at least made you curious to see what I look like. I’ll be in a silk gown the color of moonlight that clings to all my curves. You’ll know me by my Sandy Brown hair. I’ve taken ballroom dancing lessons, and I can either take the lead or follow yours. If you could almost love me when I was Kevin, maybe you might be able to love me all the way now. But don’t think I’m expecting you to fall instantly head over heels, since you’re pretty much meeting me all over again. I’m not asking for anything more than a little conversation, to share a meal and a bottle of wine, maybe a dance. Let any future we have together take care of itself. Although would you consider perhaps another first kiss at midnight?

With Enduring Love,
Kathleen