It feels odd that I feel it necessary to say this given my long history of not wearing women’s clothing, but I don’t actually want to wear women’s clothing. It’s just that, I am a little bit jealous of how much fun women can have with clothes.
This jealousy is odd. Not just because I am a chubby, gangly, bespectacled, broad shouldered, hairy ginger giant who would look truly terrifying in an evening gown. I also have a bit of a prejudice against the pink and flouncy. If my daughter wants to be a rugby player or an astronaut or an army commando or anything flippin’ else she might want to be, then by God she can be, and I will not allow the avalanche of pink, flowery, horizon limiting girlie-girlie nonsense to slow her down one step! (Sorry, got a little Dad-angry for a moment there.)
There is, though, a reality that I cannot ignore. My daughter loves dresses. Every day of her life is a magical fancy dress adventure. She thinks nothing of wearing a long, flowing, silky, sparkly party dress to the supermarket, or a ballerina tutu leotard to the doctors, flouncing and twirling around the waiting room like Audrey Hepburn in a dream sequence. I can’t believe that that kind of fearlessness is limiting. And part of me wishes I could be like that.
But as a massive, hairy man, I can’t. Well, I could, but the experience would not satisfy anyone. The most liberating thing I do is go lane swimming. I chug up and down in my sensible, black swimming trunks. Some weeks it’s the only time I get to myself. It’s precious, and very vaguely liberating. But it’s not a party dress in the supermarket.
I went swimming yesterday. I got into the changing cubicle and unrolled my towel. Out fell my wife’s shiny, slightly sexy black pants. Seems I had grabbed the wrong thing from the drying stand.
I held them up and looked at them for somewhat longer than was strictly necessary. For some reason I measured them against myself to see if they would fit.