transretrogurl

I am soooo tired right now that blogging is probably not a good idea. Sleeping *would* be a good idea, but I have a history of banging my head, sometimes literally, against the gates of daftness, so here we go.

I’m tired because I’ve been working stupidly long days with insanely long travel times. The plus side is I get to be in London, and there are some stunning fashionistas riding the Tube nowadays, and I get a lot of time to think.

The down side is I get a lot of time to think.

I’m not going to pretend that I’m not a little messed up mentally at the moment. I’ve done a lot of things that were once simply personal fantasies, and now they’ve jumped from delicious little thoughts in my head to memories. Sometimes so fast that I have to pinch myself, metaphorically using long nails of course, to make sure that I actually did the things I think I remember doing.

And that leads us nicely into the topic of this blog-post. I’m over-thinking things. Way over-thinking them at the moment.

And it’s a worry, because I am finding myself losing some enjoyment of what should be fantastic moments and wonderful points of discovery because the drab-bastard who ends up sitting in Sarah’s fluffy pink flat in my head when she is front and centre is ruminating too much.

If there’s anything I’ve learnt about Sarah it’s the fact that regardless of the thought process and planning I put into bringing her to life once she is here all the noise, the worry, the pensive planning and, rather femininely, worrying about weight/spots/colour-coordination, it all dissolves and she is just *there*.

For a little while I can forget the chaos, the constant noise of self-doubt and mid-life crisis. I find myself sat, when fully Sarah, my arms wrapped around myself and literally hugging myself as closely as I can.

And it’s a little sad as well. As drab-me I desperately want to hold *her*. I want to gently run my hands through her hair, hug her so close, kiss her.

I know they say that self-love is somewhat of a narcissistic venture (well duh) but it’s not that – I love the femininity of Sarah. I get a deep thrill when I realise that it’s me in those photos, and sometimes, for a split second, it feels like it isn’t me, and the thought of being with her is like an overpowering weight of longing.

And hence the over-thinking. I’ve reached that phase of my love affair with her that I need everything to be perfect, her styles, her look, the time she spends, and it starts to become almost too much to plan, too many worries.

I caught myself today thinking deeply about the next session I have planned. Part of that session is to go out as Sarah, to go to a club completely enfemme. I’m terrified, I can’t decide what outfit would be best, what look to go for, what hair to have.

And it hit me. I need to just let it happen. Don’t plan. I need Sarah to just pop into existence as painlessly as possible, but more importantly I need her to choose.

So my plan is thus – first, sleep, as the hallucinations are becoming particularly distracting especially as I type at midnight. Second, remember that Sarah is her own person and rather than focusing on presenting a perfect, sexualised creature, why don’t I just relax and let her tell me what she wants to do, how she wants to be seen in the outside world.

My guess is something a little slinky, maybe a short body-con dress, lots of black lace, a leather jacket. Very high heels, blonde hair, tonnes of perfume. Lots of giggling, drinking champagne.

And I’m over-thinking again. Dammit.

I’m going to close my tired eyes and see if my dreams will help. Hopefully I won’t have the recurring one where I am actually meeting Sarah. Because that’s just too confusing….

Stay beautiful sweeties, and remember to get as much beauty sleep as possible.