Working our way through yet another sad little thrift store and disparaging their so-called goods, Diane and I ran across a rack of bridesmaid dresses. one of which defied our attempts to figure out which side was the front and which was the back. I mentioned once again to D that if I were a Lady, that is, a Person with a Vagina Lady, I would always dress in second hand bridesmaid dresses, and not ironically either. They fascinate me as a kind of art piece. When Diane explained one purchases these gems at shops, legitimate businesses, I was floored. I had always assumed one had to have some little elf run them up for you.
Aside from a wardrobe consisting solely of shiny magenta, coral, peach, fuscia and the occasional teal, I would also have boxes of glittery, glitzy bijoux.
My lips would always be lacquered a brilliant red.
I would totter round town in Barbie doll heels, the sluttier the better.
My hair would be a model of restrained good taste.
I am undecided on the subject of bags.
I would, in short, rig myself out just like a style-deprived drag queen. I see Ladies tarted up pretty much like this every day on my to work, so I would fit right in, and besides, if I had to put up with Lady plumbing and its inherent wacky hi jinx (did you know Midol is just Tylenol, and caffeine? Imagine my disappointment, I had assumed it was some magic, secret elixir. Thanks a fat lot Wikipedia) I would have to demand some polyester based glamour.