Fashion Sense

usie Jay asked in the post ObserVation: Getting ready to go out about how my wife reacted to the change in my attitude, from in the past showing no interest at all, to now actively helping her choose what to wear while getting ready to go out. 

 [Ed: Half way through writing a reply as a comment, Madam realised that it was going to be a little long and so ended up as a post instead.]

Well in general quite positive.
She is happy that we have now another aspect of bonding in our relationship.
This change in attitude is one of the positive things I attribute to Abigale’s appearance on the scene. Now controlling the overdone external 'negative attitude' as barrier to not having to talk about female related things and possibly give the game away. 

Our ‘getting dressed dialogue’ has now overflowed into when we watch the box together. We have in Germany a TV program called "Shopping Queen", where a top dress designer to a particular theme, gives five woman 500 Euros each and a 3 hour time limit to go shopping and at the end get a makeover. They can take a shopping companion to help out; they are driven around, filmed the whole time and reminded constantly of the time and money left, sometimes they are down to the last second and cent when finished. 
Five shopping sprees over five days, at the end of each day the shopper presents themselves to the rest of the group on the catwalk. Points are given in secret also from the dress designer. The one with the most points at the end of the week gets a money prize. On Sunday afternoon there is a collective repeat of the 5 episodes. 
Sometimes on we sit and watch, but only if no alternative is on. 
There is usually no alternate on.. 
Well actually in the past the wife would watch, while I would have my face buried in a notebook, tablet whatever, lost to the world. She would now and then try and start a dialogue going by asking / remarking about something that was going on. I would look up and say something like ‘sorry darling, what was that?’ She usually would give up in frustration after I repeated my standard answer a few times.

Now - and this in part is Abigale's doing - I do not clam up or show total disinterest concerning what I use to think was a taboo for men. Now I give up my humble opinion when talking about ‘girl stuff’. Of course this ‘joining in’ didn’t just appear overnight. I went softly softly into this. Not really tactical, just subliminal, always trying to keep just under the surprise level of ‘Hey! What’s going on here?’ I see this as one of the ways to let Abigale dimly shine though my boy facade and anyway it’s fun! 
Well, on the TV shopping front it didn’t take that long to get into the swing of things. We both now give up our preferences and discuss what we would prefer the shopper to wear from what she has looked at / tried on and at the end if the makeover would match or not. 
Interestingly enough we usually have the same opinions and tastes. You know the situation, one would say something, the other looks astonished and remarks 
‘I was just about to say that!’ one then laughs/giggles together (yes giggles (not too girly my side)) and so on. We have been together over 40 years, it’s understandable that we rub off on each other, even in silence. 
MrsA is sometimes a little surprised to what detail I would go, when e.g. the eyebrow colour should be black and not brown with that particular eye shadow (I hold back on suggesting which product name and number would look better, that would be a right giveaway if I did!). 
We now have fun making jokes and rolling our eyes at the programs sometimes silly commentary and when some of the women have no idea how to dress themselves even with a friend tagging along. She is not surprised any more that I give up an opinion, has rather got used to it in fact and now asks actively what I think unless I get in first. 
The only thing during the program is I have to be constantly on my guard to think but not say ‘Oh! That’s nice, wouldn’t mind that, maybe in blue’ or at the other extreme 
‘I wouldn’t be seen dead in that!’ 
I almost put my foot in it once, literally. The woman was trying on shoes to go with the dress she have an eye on. MrsA remarked “that’s a nice pair, they would go really well with my new summer dress”. I almost blurted out ‘Yes they would, I have a pair just like that in the cellar, shame they won’t fit you.’ 

[Ed: Madam's misses wears a size 2-3UK. Madam a 9.]

With browsing my wife’s woman’s catalogues, scouring the online shops for clothes and shoes in my size, reading up on all manner of do’s and don’ts and watching umpteen YouTube videos with tips and tricks, I now think - I hope – I have developed a little ‘fashion sense’ in and to female attire and accessories (my boy fashion sense, if it exists, is still on the starting line).

These days I don’t restrict myself to what I like to see on my wife and the women in our circle of friends, but also to give up a spontaneous opinion when looking at someone passing on the street or a remark about someone’s appearance when they appear on the box.

I had to go to the DIY store to buy some stick-on hooks for the bathroom. As I was waiting in line to pay, I saw that the cashier had long blue nails with all manner of art work, each nail slightly different. I was fascinated. After paying and just before leaving, I complimented her on the lovely nails. To begin with, I think she was a little taken back at my remark as it coming from a man. But then came a big smile and a warm ‘thank you!’. I won’t say I made her day, but I could see she was quite chuffed that I had said something.
And.
Some time ago we were watching ‘Let’s Dance’, one of the girls had a gorgeous mint dress on with all the trimmings. My heart beat faster. I said Wow! What a lovely dress and the colour!
The wife agreed and we discussed it in detail and then moved on to the other dress creations swirling around the dance floor.
What I thought at the time was ‘Wow! I really do need this dress to go with my new heels!’ (see picture). 

Not all people have an eye for mode and a lot of it is recycled hype anyway, but most people have some sort of dress sense. I have been told not only from my wife but also friends (girls) that I seem to have more sense / taste when it comes to clothing the female form than to my own male clothing conventions.
I must say I fully agree and it’s a darn sight more fun to!

Stockings I

wanted to give a short update on my activities. 
I've now started to paint my nails daily (MrsA bought me the varnish, her idea). Use day and night creams on a regular bases (also her idea). Shave my legs (my idea) and wear every day either stay-up stockings (usually black for business) or hose in various colours (grey, makeup etc.), a pair in navy blue hose is on my shopping list.
How does that sound?
Maybe you are getting the idea that Abigale has finally 'broke free' to miss quote Freddy Mercury and that MrsA has been at last informed of what I get up to when I disappear into the cellar some evenings. Well before you all start to scroll down to the comment area to congratulate me on my progress, you can do that of course anyway. I must inform you that home wise and any other location on this planet, Abigale is still in the twilight zone.

I must clarify that the above activities are in principle correct, but as with all news headlines in certain tabloids, one must turn to page three and read the small print under the well-endowed girl (my father’s words). Therefore, I must inform you that all the listed activities are carried out while Abigale is nowhere to be seen.
[Ed: what do you mean nowhere in sight! she is right there in the middle of it!]
Yes, ok your right, somewhat in the background with this and not to happy, especially with the stockings. 
[Ed: okay explain]
I was going to... 
I’ll start with the stockings.
What I now wear daily are no means my favourite and what I would like to wear have a very different den. It started about 4 years ago when my lower legs and ankles would swell up over the day. The type of swelling where any socks I would wear left deep grooves, almost a circulation stopper and my feet felt like they would burst. It looked like I had tied up my legs with rope (no, I’m not into bondage). This was not surprising as I do little sport, my BMI was and is not that brilliant, and you will usually find me sitting starring bleary-eyed at one or more computer screens depending on if I’m at work or home. A static couch potato in fact and an advocate of “No sports” apart from viewing.
[Ed: please note that on the rare occasions when work is not taken home, all hobbies have at least one dedicated computable device in there somewhere, hence there is always at least one screen glowing in the house and a motionless gestalt in front of it.]
Thanks for reminding me, IDT! If I may say so you are pretty active in this post.
[Ed: True, it’s only because I know you are having difficulty getting it moving and thought I would give you time to think about what you want to say.]
Well yes, there is that. It’s funny how you know these things. I will do my best to keep going so you don’t need to butt in.
[Ed: You’re the boss.]
? .. 
Okay where was I? 
Yes, swollen lower legs and ankles. 
I started to wear sneaker socks that just covered the ankle joint so as not to induce the grooves over the day. This worked, but the swelling of course didn’t go away. Also I was getting funny looks and remarks from one of my colleagues in business meetings when my trousers would slide up while sitting and 'expose' my bare ankles. What his eyes were doing looking down there instead of concentrating on the meeting I have no idea. It’s not like I was a Victorian woman showing ankle to all and sundry and have people fainting all over the place! 

Anyway, MrsA eventually badgered me into going to see my phlebologist. I had occasionally in the years passed vein inflammations. At these times for a few weeks I became a heparin junky. To help the blood flow I had to keep my legs up on my office desk with keyboard on me lap. This provided an excuse for snide remarks of my co-workers when passing by. 
To top this I also have varicose veins in one leg, fortunately only on the surface and not deep which could lead to a deep vein thrombosis (DVT) and possibly an OP. Of course, all these things are connected and I thought at first the swellings were a symptom of the varicose veins, lack of exercise and bad circulation in the one leg, but as the swellings got worse and started to appear in both legs I went for a check-up. I usually have to be pushed or dragged to the doctors, unless it’s drastic that is. 
Funny, but on top of the normal “oh do I really have to” look I give MrsA by the mention of a medical check-up, I was also reluctant to visit my “leg doctor” again. I have known her a long time and we have worked together in the past, but I was still, let’s say apprehensive about turning up. I think it has to do with that most of her clientele are women and I felt, would you believe, slightly embarrassed. It could also have been the uneasiness I felt about the cold jell being pressed painfully into the legs with echo lode noises gasping from the ultrasound transducer in the background. Although I love anything High Tech, I’m not so happy when it’s used on me! Ok, a phlebologist is in no way comparable to having to go to a gynaecologist, which is not on my radar at the present, if ever.
[Ed: It’s never too late to go to one’s gynaecologist..]
Leave it!
Anyway I made an appointment and we talked and I got my dose of cold jell and we talked and she explained that my venous values at the top of my upper legs where on the blink, leading to chronic venous insufficiency (CVI). It turned out that the little chaps were not capable of returning enough blood back up to the heart, hence the oedemas down below. 
Great I thought, now what! 
Again we talked, there was mention of stripping. I remember me Mum going through this in her 40s. It would have been nice if she could have least kept them for herself. Also there was talk of the dreaded surgical stockings, which if I understood correctly would mean immediate use with the option of possibly forever!
[Ed: I was wondering how long it was going to take to get there!]
Yes, the preamble was a little long but here we are! The infamous ugly drab sweat inducing surgical stockings! 
Right, I thought you asked for it, an emerging girl to decrepit grandmother in one fell swoop! 
I won’t say I was depressed, ok alright, I was.

As I was taking this all in she rummaged around in her freebie/sample cupboard and handed me a pair of stockings with a “try these, they should fit”. I took the package stared at the colour through the plastic cover and sighed. On turning it over my eyes fell on a picture of a lovely woman with thin sleek legs that went all the way up (see picture). Ok, I was not naïve in thinking that the stockings would turn me into this lovely creature, but hey, I would make the best of it! 
I thanked her, went home with my so-called “girly prize” and told MrsA the results of my visit. She was naturally concerned at first about the diagnosis until I handed her the stockings and on seeing the cover, she started to giggle which ended up in uncontrollable laughter! I cannot say I hadn’t expected this and eventually I joined in to defuse it somewhat. 
What I didn’t expect was the mixed feelings I was getting. On the one hand, embarrassment having to now wear stockings every day and in “public” to boot (whatever the den) and on the other of a growing excitement of having it “official”, wear stockings like the woman on the packaging!
[Ed: In no way does she need to wear those type of stockings! Its pure advertisement.]
I know, I know, can’t I have at least one illusion in all this! 

Oh! just seen how late it is, sorry have to go and wash my stockings and then polish my nails. Next time I’ll relate my “first walk around" experience in them and how they got ruined within days and the consequences there from.

[Ed: For those who are interested in the make and model they were from Jobst and from the series ‘Ultra Sheer’, which she finds are the “sexy” ones under the compression stockings and why MrsA couldn’t stop laughing at the prospect of "him" having to wear them.]

Bathnight..

mentioned at the end of the post Windows: If the dress fits.. that I had discovered makeup, well this window post centres around this experience. I probably had other contacts “of the second kind” with makeup at home but this one stands out and is just as fresh in my mind as with nearly getting caught by my father in one of my mother’s dresses in the same said bathroom in which this story unfolds.
Again, I was in my early teens and it was a Friday night. It being so long ago, how do I know it was a Friday? Well, because it was bath night and that was synonym with Fridays, a weekly ritual that never changed unless we were away on holiday. I must say, I was always rather reluctant to take a bath. I ummed and ahhed a bit until my mother gave me that “look”, and then it was an about turn and quick bee line for the bathroom before her wrath would have led to a contact of another kind!
After the introduction of a makeup session into my bathing activities, I even looked forward to bath night. My mother was presently surprise and pleased that I had finally “come around” of course she had no idea of my real reason for the seclusion. Funny enough once I had overcome the initial “shock” of getting into hot water, I would usually stay in it for as long as I could. This was now to my advantage, as my mother knew I would be occupied for the next hour. What she did not know was that most of the time I was not soaking in the tub!
 
The evening would go something like this: 
I would lock the door to the bathroom and run the bath. Then quickly bathe, dried off and don my bathrobe. Instead of pulling the bath plug, I would leave the water in the bath. The water going down the plughole and the gurgling noise issuing from it could wake the dead. This would have indicated to my mother that I was finished ahead of time, but of course, I wanted to use the rest of my allotted time for some girl related fun.
My parents as usual where in the living room at the front of the house watching the box (TV). The distance from the bathroom to living room was only about 5 meters along a corridor. I had to make sure they would not hear me on my excursion. I opened the bathroom door entered the corridor and close it behind me. I turned 90 degrees on my axis and open the door to the morning room (our bungalow was very small), passed through and closed it. I had only gone a distance of about 3 meters but it was through two “semi’ creaky doors and over a set of ‘normal’ creaky floorboards! In all this time, I had to listen for any signs of suspicious noises and possible movements above the bubbling background noise of the TV, talk about nerve wracking!
Once in the morning room, I opened the draw to the sideboard, which was adjacent to the door I had just come through. Again, I listened like mad while groping around for my mother’s makeup bag. On extracting it from the draw, I removed her compact and one of the older lipsticks. I was super cautious, anything brand new or little used was taboo. I closed the bag and replaced it in the draw, turned on my heels and retraced my creaky way back to the bathroom. On locking the door, I sat on the side of the bath, swish around a little in the water and calm myself down as best I could. I have no idea how long the round trip took but at the time, it seemed like ages.
 

It was now time to look at the booty. On removing the two objects from my bathrobe, I would open and close them as quietly as possible so that their characteristic sounds would not leave the room. It is funny but I can still hear the sound of the compact being closed and the dull metallic “pop” sound when removing the lipstick top. It reminds me of how loud and demonstratively my mother would close her compact after refreshing her lips, as if to say, with a glance towards my father, “well I’m ready now, we can go!”.
The two objects in my hands represented to me the ability to make a face feminine, a way of heightening the girly-ness in me and turn my own face, even for a short time, into a female one. I had thought about mascara, but it would have meant more application time in total and the use of removal pads afterwards. No, timing was critical here and also I just could not take the chance of close scrutiny from my mother, powder and lippy was washable, mascara then not. I had tried it once, the chemicals in the pads stung my eyes and it was oily. Just too much work and detectable.

First I would apply the face powder. Ritualistically I would open and close (with that click) the compact; just handling it was part of the pleasure. I would then remove the pad and smell it, a smell I will never forget. I would gather the powder on the pad and apply in the way I had seen my mother do a dozen times. I had to be careful not to apply too much otherwise; it would start a bout of sneezing. I had one once, trying to suppress a sneeze can be painful. I would checking in the compacts mirror that I have covered all of my face with the powder. I had now a light beige complexion in total contrast to my normal ruddy cheeks that I had inherited from my father, very similar to Prince Harry (no relation).
 
Next came the lipstick. I would remove the lid, and extend it slowly to its full length. The colour was usually a classic red; I cannot remember my mother wearing anything apart from shades of red. She was not that experimental when it came to makeup. I would have liked that she tried pinks, as they were becoming more popular in the early sixties. All I could do was use what was available. I think from this time my preference in the type of lipstick I would like to use was made. I do not mean the colour, but the shape/form and handling. All the lipsticks I have ever bought have the classical form, not these thin stick like contraptions that look more like a paintbrush, or are applied like nail vanish, thin pencils or a board marker. I am quite conservative in this and in the art of applying, one could say old school. (I must also admit I have a tick for Yves Saint Laurent lipsticks, the casing is a work of art, you realise you have something in your hand when brandishing it).

Using my reflection in the compacts mirror, I slowly and carefully painted my lips with broad strokes. I would look on fascinated in how the colour had transformed my face. After one coat, I would critically check for mistakes, correct the best I could and then go over once again with a second coat just for the heck of it. When I was satisfied, I would mimic my mother by blotting with a Kleenex and gaze at the red stained tissue and my reflection in the mirror now off in a girly daydream.
One of the things I would dream about was having the lipstick and compact in each of my jeans back pockets and after playing about (of course only with girls) we would sit down on the grass and take them out and refresh our lips and check our appearance.
 
This whole experience was always short lived.
The bath water was in the meantime quite cold. I was also getting cold and as I had lost all sense of time, the panic phase started to kick in. I always had the recurring fear that the lipstick would not come off! I had heard that there were stay-on lipsticks out there and hoped my mother hadn't added one to her arsenal. Also, I was afraid that I would not get the makeup back in its rightful place before being detected.
I franticly washed my face until I couldn't tell if my lips were reddened due to the exhaustive scrubbing or from lipstick stain. After examining my face for tell-tale traces of my handy work, it was time for the final phase of the evening.
Now everything had to go quickly before someone heard the disappearing water, which normally triggered activity from my mother in the living room. I removed the plug, flushed reluctantly the red stained Kleenex down the toilet, pocketed the lipstick/compact in my bathrobe, and quickly left the bathroom for the morning room. Once there opened the draw and makeup bag, replaced items from pocket, closed bag/draw and then hurried off to the kitchen to put the kettle on for my coco. I could then stand around as if nothing was amiss apart with my heart thumping away like mad!
It was usually a close call at this point, as my Mother would come out to check the bathroom to see what chaos I had left behind and in most cases order me back to mop up the floor or something. As I was cleaning up, I could start to relax and swear to myself that that was the last time I would do such a crazy thing.
Of course wanting to do “girl stuff” doesn’t go away just like that and so you can imagine what happened the following Friday..
 

P.S: As I was writing up this episode, I remembered a lipstick that my mother once had where the lipstick and mirror were combined. It was her favourite and therefore I had to admire it from afar and never “play” with it. After she died, I found it in her vanity case the content long gone. It must have had memories for her to have kept the casing all that time. Of course, I pocketed it before everything landed in a black bag for the rubbish tip. I have it at home somewhere but I am not too sure where, but I know it will turn up sometime.

When it does, It will be placed to my own stash of lipsticks and bridge a gap of more than 50 years.
I was interested if I could find out something about it, so I checked the net and found in an antiques market pictures of the same model. It was a Stratton Combination Lipstick Holder and Vanity Mirror. (See pictures). I find it interesting that something like this is now an antique and then it hits you when one realises that one is also one..
 

Dream Dressing

hat I mean here is dreaming of getting dressed, not the classical dreaming in sleep with REM etc. but either “day dreaming” or what I call “dusk dreaming”, those last thoughts of the day on hitting the hay and getting ready to enter the Land of Nod. 

First a mini ObserVation: Earlier when I could not get to sleep, either through stress or excess coffee/tea at a much to late an hour or both, the method that usually worked to relax and drop off was to imagine in slow motion and in as much detail as possible, dressing myself as a woman. I would start with putting on shape ware, followed by stockings, makeup, a dress, jewellery and heels. Well I usually never got (I think, difficult to remember the next morning) beyond makeup or maybe a dress, as I was soon gone to the world. Some may say the opposite should have happened, but no, I just nodded off. 
Now since having my own wardrobe and the rare chance to enjoy it (see last post: Getting ready to go out) this method does not work anymore. I think it could be that I really know now how it feels to dress, instead of just imagining it, and because I can’t dress as often as I want, this introduces another stress (frustration) that blocks the sandman in some way. 
Any ideas? 
Please note: If any of you are going to ask what I do now to drop off, forget it, I will adamantly decline to say anything as this may be used etc. etc.. 

Ok and so to a day dream sequence from the past. 
I must have suppressed this next memory, or filed it away under “of no present interest”, but it surfaced again recently triggered by finding some old photos of my grandma and Abigale looking over my shoulder. There was a time my parents and I (a reluctant tagger on in this case) went regularly, almost every weekend to East London to visit my Nana to see how she was doing. We would fill the fridge, stock up larder and then take her out for a drink(s) until the pubs closed. We did this for as long as I can remember. Of course as a kid I wasn’t allowed in pubs, either the pub had a “family room”, or if not Dad would go and collect the drinks and we would stay put in the car. Invariably with the last round of the evening, he would “forget” to return the glasses and only “remember” them again when we were well and truly home. It’s interesting what embarrassing things stick in one’s mind! 

Anyway, I have a scene before me. I must have been somewhere between 12 and 14. My recollection was sitting in the back of the car homeward bound (glasses under the seat), bored as usual, and trying to keep my mind off being on the edge of being permanently car sick. This was due to the combination of the smell of plastic seats and two chain smokers puffing away up front. It was around midnight and we had to drive east back along the Commercial Road to the outskirts of the city. As my parents in silence, concerned themselves with driving through the Kray Brothers’ territory (Ronnie and Reggie were at the height of their notoriety at the time) and trying to keep on the move by hitting a green light sequence (stopping was not a good idea), I stared out at the endless chain of shop fronts sailing passed bathed in a dim sodium yellow light.

Most of the shops were dark, but every now and then one would be lighted up and I could get an idea of what they were selling. I of course was only interested in shops selling girly things. When I spotted one I would imagine myself going in (the door was always open) trying on whatever they were selling dresses, shoes, lingerie whatever. I would then leave, keeping my choice on and walk hurriedly on in the direction of home, of course magically keeping pace with the car. With the next lighted shop I would repeat the “experience”, this time either picking up another garment, jewellery or some makeup. I had “won” when I was fully transformed before we got home.
A variation on this, when the weather was not wet and windy, was starting out naked and before getting caught (which never happened), seeing how long it took to get “respectable” in some way.

I think I must have reached the Land of Nod a few times over the years, as I remember being awakened from my slumber on arriving home.