transretrogurl

One year old. Courtesy of an email from WordPress. I had no idea I had been splurging stuff up here for all of 365 days. Re-reading a lot of it makes me laugh as opposed to the frankly appalled I thought I’d be, although a lot of the early stuff is me skirting around issues (excuse the pun), and a lot of the later stuff tends to spiral off into gothic-style pathos, but on the whole i’m proud of this little pink corner of the web.

Enough self-congratulations, this blog post is a bit of fun around where I am *right* now. It’s Tuesday. I’m doing some epic sessions at the end of the week. Normally I’d be fretting, panicking, planning, unable to sleep, literally terrified in a wonderful/scary/wonderful way.

But not this time. This time I’m relaxing and doing it differently, like normal people. Again, pardon the pun.

Normally it’s up at the crack of dawn, a frenzied face shave that leaves blood all over the bathroom, a rush to the train station (a 90 minute drive) feeling the odd sensation of shaved legs beneath rough jeans, then an hour and a half sat on a train constantly staring at my ‘other’ bag, a rough and ready looking backpack that is literally stuffed solid with femm stuff, my heart jumping every time someone goes near it to get theirs.

Then it’s a fight across London in rush hour, guarding my bag of treasures while compressed up against travellers, my macho senses firing off. And by the time I arrive for my session, often stressed and in fight or flight mode, I am so far from Sarah that it takes a good hour or so of deep breathing (which isn’t easy in a tight corset) before she starts to seep into my behaviours.

But not this time. This time I’m, gasp, going to do it in a more relaxed approach. I’m heading up the day before, attending some meetings for work, then chilling overnight at the hotel. I’ll get up at a sensible time, gently shave, avoid breakfast because a corset is hard enough without turning yourself into a coffee/danish filled tube of toothpaste, then have my session. Then I’m spending the evening as Sarah at my hotel. I’ve even bought some pink pyjamas for the occasion. Then another session the next day, followed by a night out at a T-nightclub.

See? No stress.

Well, not quite. Oddly enough relaxing about the whole venture seems to cause me stress but in a different way. It might well be that the stress is part of the experience, the shucking off of the male persona needs to be done with a chorus of worries. Sounds mad but I’m worried about not being worried in case being worried is the fuel that feeds Sarah’s fire.

Or I could just be over-thinking it. Like I do everything. Yeah, that’s it….

Anyway, I have two *huge* sessions planned, with loads of new looks and new ideas. I’m hoping to do some retro looks as I still love those looks – I have a couple of very cute new Lindy Bop frocks that I think will look delicious with a beehive. I have a couple of office dresses which should make me look like a banker, or if you hate that, a lawyer ready to sue the bankers. I have a proper 21st century nurse’s uniform.

I’ve also got a couple of outfits that I’m still in two minds about. I have a 1940s style pant-suit which is wonderfully retro, but when I tried it on it fit but it wasn’t comfy because, well, of the ‘extras’ down there. You know those strings they use to cut cheese? Yes, there’s an image that will stick with you for a while. Anyway, the pant-suit rides up the crevasse a bit and although I love the flared trousers I can see me causing myself some serious damage while posing (again, cheese wire).

I also have a full length red lace dress that feels great to put on but what’s the point of long, hairless legs if you hide them?

So, another couple of days of seeing how rusty my hips can feel, of waiting for the inevitable pain as the blood fails to get to my feet while they are shoved into heels two sizes too small (because the shoes are gorgeous and it seems to be a 100% female thing to suffer because, you know, THE SHOES!), of constantly checking my teeth for lipstick (and finding it), wondering if my kidneys will ever move back to their normal position when I finally undo the corset. And I’ll love every moment of it, right up until I apply the make-up remover with a pang of loss I can’t my finger on before trudging off into the night in drab once more.

But hey, all part of the experience and all part of the fun.

Stay beautiful you delicious creatures.