The world of trans women is a very topsy-turvy one. What would otherwise be fine and very practical, such as big strong hands, serious musclepower, and height sufficient to reach whatever is on the top shelf, is actually regarded a misfortune, because women typically have little hands, no strength, and are short.
Nothing much is said, or at least I've never heard much said, but I suspect that some trans women are seriously envious of other trans women whose physical characteristics are closer than their own to the female norm. I've been guilty of it anyway. And the joke is, ordinary women don't find weakness and shortness very amusing. It may make you look cute, but it's just not practical and makes life difficult. There must be a lot of women who would like to be stretched somehow, so that their squat dumpiness would turn into slim elegance. And a bit of height and clout does make a woman harder to browbeat and treat badly.
And yet (it seems to me from observation and conversation) most trans women have this tendency to be unduly self-critical of their bodies, and tragically envious of a life with small extremities and a permanent crick in the neck from having to look upwards too much. It's an understandable envy, but it's a bit strange all the same, because Big and Strong can indeed be Beautiful. Or at least Very Useful.
Believe me, when I'm trying to clean the outside of the caravan, or push it about, I'd welcome a longer reach, more push, and more power in my grip. I've got some heft (meaning fourteen and a half stone) but that's not terribly helpful. There are times when I wish I could bend iron bars, ot at least unscrew bottle-tops without spraining my wrist. For a solo lady who has to do it all herself, bulge is no sustitute for brawn. I think that I would find changing a tyre on Fiona or the caravan truly beyond my capability. In fact, that's the real travelling nightmare: not getting lost, nor getting stuck in traffic: it's actually the fear of picking up some sharp object and suffering a flat tyre as a result. No, not even that, because I'd just call the breakdown people. It's the wait for a fix, knowing that you can't do it yourself.
I've twice had a breakdown towing. The first time was in September 2006, in daylight, when a caravan tyre burst far from home in Shropshire. The second was in October 2008, in the dark, on the M11 in Essex, when I lost power in the engine. The first incident was part of the Old Life. The second was at the beginning of my transition. Both incidents involved the old car, the Honda CR-V, which was getting old and less reliable, and not super-reassuring Fiona who came along in 2010. But even Fiona has had her punctures.
Lack of strength sometimes doesn't matter if one has an inventive mind. My cousin R---, a retired headmistress a few years older than myself, has a maxim that there is always a way of approaching any lifting problem. She is clever enough to figure out the workaround. I'm not. So there is a lot of physical stuff that I've mentally dismissed from my DIY repertoire. Such as shifting furniture from room to room. Or landscaping my garden. That actually sounds quite feeble, but I honestly feel that the Melford physique isn't up to it, at least not without risking injury.