Thursday, December 04, 2003

Shopping Therapy

My friend and I (let's call her Miss S) went shopping for clothes this afternoon. Nothing like a little clothing shopping to brighten a day.

Let's make a mental picture here and put in the votes for Miss S's hutzpah -- as she doesn't have an extensive wardrobe at this point, she was in her Boy Disguise for the trip. Baggy shorts, black shapeless T shirt, oncewhite sneakers, athletic socks, and baseball cap, standing in the dress aisle at Ross holding a velvet and spangled strappy dress and saying "Are your tits attached to your chest? No? Then I think not."

It was a wonderful afternoon. The selection was varied yet limited. It was interesting to watch (this is the pronoun problem. When Miss S is in Drag Queen mode, she's a "she". When Miss S is M, and a Guy, then I use "he". When M is shopping with Miss S talking in his head and making asides to me, I have to make something up. I've fallen back to "hir", but for my own happy hahhahs I am also going to use "schmee" and "schmiz" because there's just nothing else and it both expresses the situation and makes me laugh. Now back to our program) hir standing there trying on a fabulous "wet look" rain coat and posing. Or sliding a tight white pirate style shirt over hir t-shirt and running around the rack to the mirror. Then there was the ordeal of finding me something to wear for Saturday and going through various versions of "Oh yes", "Oh no" and "Oh dear."

Among many unfortunate fashion choices we saw were a pair of waistless Daisy Duke destressed and faded shorts -- in a size 26. A Serious size 26. I'm a size 18-20, and I already know that my ass does NOT belong in, around, or near a pair of Daisy Duke shorts, expecially if they are cut below my belly button with a drawstring. Oh, and the ass cheeks on the jeans were already faded for you. I cannot begin to express how much I never want to see those on any person. I don't even want to see them with the openings sewn up and stuffed with batting for a throw pillow.

There were also those few moments when some of the other ladies also scouring the racks would look askance at us as we examined and commented and put things in the cart. Occasionally I found myself saying "Oh, Miss S would love that" in a somewhat pronounced voice -- feeling protective, feeling like I wanted to put a defensive shield around M so that none of these glances would bother him. Foolish me. He's not going to be bothered. He's all "I'm having fun, so fuck you" -- in his rather deep, rather gravely voice. Or the lighter, softer one.

And I occasionally find myself hearing a whisper of suspicion, saying "This can't be real. This stuff doesn't happen. It's a big practical joke. Sooner or later he will turn around and pull the Hahah on you." To which I reply. "Oh please. He WORE those shoes. You do not spend this kind of money on a practical joke." So I just open up and accept it and enjoy it and stop analyzing it. When I analyze it -- when I think too deeply, poking the roots and the sources and so forth, I end up standing and staring with my mouth open.

It's easier just to laugh. Miss S is still giggling like a fiend, and she hasn't even had a chance to try it all on. That's tomorrow night.

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