I am climbing the walls. Not literally, of course, but figuratively, in an hourglass-figure-that-I-definitely-don’t-have kind of way.
See, dear readers, it’s been a while since I rolled up the stockings, slipped the tootsies into a pair of patent heels, and wobbled my way into a frock. Just under four months to be exact. And now I’m on the verge of a other session, in two days in fact. This time on Friday I’ll be wiping the immaculate face-paint off to reveal my rapidly growing stubble before heading back to the hotel to look at the hopefully many pictures of Sarah the 1950’s housewife.
Pictured – ‘Do a little dance, make a little love, get down tonight’
Well, that’s the theory. See, I’ve had a bit of a moment over the last two weeks, partly due to the fact that I, err, hmm, passed the fifty year mark.
It’s been a perfect storm of female hormones, urges, fantasies, worries, fears, terrors, late-mid-life crisis-es. And, for the first time, the body seems to be failing to it. Or not – I’ve had the symptoms of a bad case of stress and IBS for two weeks, a bloated stomach, ache, feeling bleh, terrible night’s sleep, all the usual. I’d like to say it’s Sarah’s time of the month but a: a man and b: see a:.
Pictured – although, wonderfully, evidence seems to be to the contrary on the ‘a man’ statement
So, I lie here, freshly ‘initially’ shaved (legs, arms, chest down to where the dresses go, waiting for the itch to fade, wondering when the IBS bloat will go away and whether the session on Friday will be one where I hourglass my way through the gorgeous new frocks Sarah has bought, or spend the day in maternity wear flaunting my gaseous child-to-come.
Pictured – ‘Err, is IBS meant to kick?’
Anyway, enough waxing lyrically. It’s been four months and, oddly, I was getting used to him again. Shaving was odd; I actually felt a little resentful to be losing the hair on the legs, and that’s not a good sign. I was thinking I could stand four months out of a corset, maybe even six, but it seems that taking a break of that length, at least for me, seems to strengthen the hard-coded masculinity and that’s not something I want to encourage. Twenty years was a long time for Sarah to bang around in my head – if I do that again I’ll be 70 by the time she totters around again, wearing whatever passes for high heels in 2039 (ye Gods, we’re heading back to the thirties again. And the twenties).
So, I’ll put Sarah’s heavy backpack on tomorrow, hop a train at 6:00am into London, head into my office where the bag of frocks (and other props such as a considerable latex pair of false boobs, numerous condoms and a lube that is specially designed to look like the white stuff (if you know what I mean) ) will sit tucked under a desk while I talk to customers and technically brief some techies, all the while worrying that someone will move the backpack and all of Sarah’s stuff will spill out onto the office floor.
Pictured – the condoms are props. If you thought anything else, you’re naughty 😉
And it’s times like these that I genuinely wonder how on earth I got here – fifty years old, heading into the capital city to talk about some multi-million pound deals while thinking about how wonderful the chiffon silver and black stripe Kitty tea-dress is going to feel against my hairless stockinged legs.
Yeah, even with the angst, the IBS, the constant questioning of my sexuality, gender, conformity or lack thereof, this life is a lot of fun.
And I hope to be able to do some live-blogging – it would be a lot of fun to type, slowly, with ruby red nails….
Pictured – and live out my ‘Lois Lane’ fantasy, of course…
Stay beautiful people, be good to yourselves and try not to stress, it’s not good for you.
Pictured – when I get really, really stressed, I remind myself that she lives inside of me. And that cheers me up, even if the person in the mirror is a fifty year old bloke there’s a bubbly retro-obsessed girl just waiting for the chance to dress-up and pose.