I’m about to divulge a secret. A deep, dark, slightly embarrassing secret. It’s such a secret that Flash and I haven’t discussed it or the ramifications. I haven’t mentioned it to my son and the friends here in San Antonio are still in the dark.
I’m turning girly.
I’m not taking hormones. Granted, I’m on some new blood pressure medication, but that shouldn’t cause what’s been happening for the last two months. I did read the precautions and nowhere does it list the symptoms I’m having.
An incredible lust for garments with lace.
An urge to use eyeliner every day.
Wearing jewelry even when I’m alone with Flash. Like these:
I’ve redone my bedroom. The comforter is called Rapunzel, of all things:
I’ve been experiencing a craving for ruffles and smocks.
I found myself in the grip of helpless obsession and bought these for my vanity:
I have always maintained that our childhood has an incredible hold on us. Who we are as adults may change, but there are kernels of truth about us locked deep in our childhood psyche. If I utilize that thinking, then there’s no doubt what’s wrong with me.
I’ve been Southern Belled.
I had polio when I was little. My mother had the idea that any lingering traces of difficulty walking would be dispelled by miles and miles of strutting around with a book on my head. Therefore, I had to attend not one, but TWO charm schools. The first concentrated on poise, like walking, standing, being. The second school taught me how to giggle with dignity, praise anyone, find something on which to converse, and be a queen at the table.
I actually – holding my head in shame here – graduated from both of them. Not with honors, but I graduated.
I was reared by a Southern Belle who was reared by a Southern Belle. The one woman in the family with whom I remotely identified was Mary Sue and she scared the hell out of everybody, me included. But she was definitely not a Southern Bell.
I’ve gone girly, my friends. Girly. Me. Me, of the Chinese Chicken Shoes. Me of the “wear out these pants until they fall off your derriere”. Me.
I can only hope it’s a temporary condition, that I wasn’t permanently scarred by the Southern Belle dominance of my childhood.
Only time will tell, y’all.
Bless your little pea-picking heart.