I’m in London. And, as it appears the Gods truly do like to toy with me, it’s the start of a couple of days of intense heatwave, mid 30s celsius. Me, I hate the heat; there is Nordic blood pumping through my veins and any temperature over 20C and I feel like I’m melting. I’ve pulled a muscle in my back, more of that in a second, the IBS is back with a lot of friends and I made the stunningly clever decision of drinking myself stupid and back again last night.
And in just over an hour I’ll hop in a taxi, go to Cindy’s place, and have a full face of makeup done, proper retro, put on some seriously binding under-garments and spend ten hours trying on various not-summer-style retro frocks while trying to pose without my back betraying me and, courtesy of the ‘glorious’ summer weather, fighting the urge to melt.
Pictured – out in the dreaded sunshine. For the record, I don’t smoke, but given I’m not a woman and it’s not 1942 one more fib won’t hurt 🙂
Why do we do this to ourselves?
Because. When you have a compulsion like this it’s not really a choice – any chance to slip the surly bonds of masculinity, if only for a day regardless of how uncomfortable that day will be, and I take it like a shot. I could postpone, although I have just butchered my face and the bleeding is just about stopping. But I won’t, I’ve been looking forward to this for months.
One of the other amusing things is I could very well spend all day trying on light summer frocks and posing in the blistering sunshine, but because I am a bloke 97% of the time I don’t have a cleavage, and the idea of wearing a breastplate which looks superb but, to be honest, is the best way to get sweaty very quickly, in this heat is a no-no. Which is ironic, as the summer frocks are light, fluffy and a joy to wear in the heat. If you weren’t packing 10 kilos of silicon right against your flesh that is.
Pictured – when choosing whether to use falsies in a bra or the stunning breastplate, we always refer to ‘boobage’ or ‘sweatage’. This is sweatage…. 🙂
And the back. My back has been completely fine for months. Literally no problem with it. Last week I went to Edinburgh, up on the East Coast train and back, two days later, on the West Coast Train. The East Coast train was a very old HST with chairs that were, to be frank, more torture devices than actual seats. And when I got back my back grumbled a bit, so to keep it quiet I went and played badminton.
That was insane. Turns out lunging for shots when your back is tender kinda makes it worse. Who’d have thought? And yesterday, as I stood with all the other grumpy commuters on the Virgin train pulling into Euston and lifted my ‘bag of goodies’ (seven dresses, falsies, breastplate, undergarments, jewellery box, the works) my back went ‘nope’ and a bolt of pain shot from the hips to the tailbone.
Luckily, for both the IBS and the back, most of today will be spent with a very tight corset on which replaces the need for a: musculature and b: internal organs in the right places. When it comes off, well, that’s a different story and I fully expect to have to be stretchered back to my air-conditioned hotel room late this evening, but, as the Simpsons say, that’s future-Homer’s problem.
Pictured – also future-Homer’s problem, explaining to my colleagues on Thursday why I don’t have a beard…..
For now it’s just the standard nagging worry of whether the taxi will be on time, or even show up. Because there’s no way I can yomp from the hotel to the makeup place, even though I normally do in the winter. I would literally collapse into a sweating boneless pile of pain after, say, four steps.
I’ve got those pre-performance shakes as well – in real life ™ I do a lot of public speaking and lately I’ve got so blasé about it I no longer do any preparation, partly so I can get that delightful rush of terror when I start, but mostly because it’s all become second nature. When it comes to a session, where I shed the masculine armour and reveal the butterfly within, I’m close to loss of bladder and bowel control with the fear. Even now, after 35 (!!!!) sessions I still get the willies before it.
Pictured – sometimes I wonder whether giving my public speeches dressed like this would re-ignite that delicious fear. At least the audience would pay attention.
So, on that note, the toilet calls my name as once I get there and get frocked up using the bathroom is a no-no (never understood why the fashion for women involve lots of delicate tearable things and talons for nails – it’s like the manufacturers of tights and stockings have a conspiracy to force you to buy loads of their products).
Stay beautiful and true to yourselves, no matter how batsh*t insane that inner girl is.
Pictured – she’s a little crazy, bless her…..