Taking A Stand: Cross-dressing was enlightening
Now I know why women get in such bad moods. It’s all the stuff they have to wear.
In case you haven’t noticed by Sunday’s front page, I was one of the brave souls who dressed up like a woman during the Relay for Life this weekend. Hey, it was to raise money for cancer research; so it was for a good cause. However, I’m still trying to figure out what cross-dressing has to do with raising money since we could have simply walked around and asked for donations without having to get all dolled up. Maybe it’s the whole shock value thing and let me say, there were some shockingly ugly women/men, or whatever you call them, there this weekend. I wasn’t anything to take home to mother either although some said my blonde wig brought out the blueness of my eyes.
The way I look at it, unless you wear lace panties under your jeans on a regular basis and were looking for a way to come out of the closet, cross-dressing requires a man to be very secure in his masculinity. A borderline sissy man isn’t going to put on the short skirt and makeup and walk around in front of hundreds of people asking for donations, even if he does have legs like mine. By the way, I refused to shave my legs despite repeated requests. There had to be a line drawn, although drawing a line seems somewhat hollow when I was wearing a skirt short enough that my boxers were practically showing. Hey, at least I wasn’t wearing panties.
While the humiliation factor never got to me Friday night, not even given the daisies which were painted on my big toes, there were a couple of things that did irritate me, namely my girlie shoes and my restrictive underwire bra.
Granted, the fake eyelashes which kept sticking in the open position and my long flowing blonde locks, which kept ending up blowing into my mouth, were slightly irritating. At least they didn’t leave marks like the 36C bra I had strapped around me. Hey, I work out a lot so the 36C fit my chest perfectly in front; however, the math didn’t work out seeing my chest is 41 inches. Every time I’d walk, my “stuffing” would jiggle causing a very painful rub which was red as a cherry by the end of the night. The bra also left a very distinct impression on my back and shoulders, leaving me to wonder if I’d have to endure bra marks for several days.
Of course, the pain of the bra slowly slicing me in two was masked by the pain my shoes were causing to my feet. How anyone can find flip-flops comfortable is beyond me. And, I was in some of the more comfortable shoes as some of the guys were wearing high heels. Those things are a broken ankle waiting to happen. They’re like walking on little mini-stilts.
And what about that makeup women wear? I mean it was horrible. My skin couldn’t breath. It was like wearing a mask over my face. It’s hard to imagine anyone wearing that stuff every day, unless you’re a member of a band named KISS.
If I’m a girl and it’s between caking that stuff on my face every day and growing old as a spinster, I’d take my chances on becoming the old cat lady who lives at the end of the street. Whoever marketed all these painful torture devices women wear must have been a genius that would rival the inventor of the hot wing. After all, who would put themselves in such discomfort just to look a little better?
As for me, I’ve had my fill of women’s wear. Next year it’s my turn to make fun of someone else. And yes, I’ve returned all the women’s lingerie.
Duane Sherrill is a reporter for the Standard. He can be reached at 473-2191 or by e-mail at [email protected].