By LANE DeGREGORY
Published May 13, 2007
LARGO -- She couldn't sleep. She lay for hours in the dark.
In the morning, she would pose for her first portrait, at age 48. All her life, she had dodged and wavered and contemplated every avoidance, even suicide. Now, 12 hours to go.
She got up at 1 a.m., made coffee. She took a mug into the den of her Largo home, pulled out her red journal and started to write:
So here I sit. Alone in the early morning hours. Waiting for the rest of my life to begin.
She had spent years planning for this day. In the last month, she had frantically built a wardrobe, learned makeup, fretted over her too-short hair. She thought she looked good. Pretty. Professional.
Her debut would come after four decades of self-examination, in the dust of a leader's best-laid plans, in the remnants of her family. It glowed with the promise of possibility. Like new skin.
But what if others didn't see her the way she saw herself?
She had already lost her job, her friends and her home -- the things that gave her an identity -- for admitting she wasn't the person they knew. Now that she was showing them a second self, would they reject that person too?
She knew that some people would never even see Susan Ashley Stanton.
They would see a man in a dress.
Shedding a life usually means starting over, quietly, somewhere else. Slip town. Get a new job in a place no one knows your name.
For Steve Stanton, that wasn't an option. . . .
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