As a writer, I often give free rein to my imagination. One of the imaginings I've had is this one:
I'm at the mall, preferably with my wife, and I'm all dolled up, 6' 3" in my heels, skirt above the knee, tights, hair, makeup...the works. Knowing I can never pass as a genuine female, I imagine passing a group of teenagers, or perhaps young twenty-somethings, who "make" me and start laughing and joking and catcalling.
The me at the mall has the confidence to stop, wink at my wife, turn around and walk up to them. They shut up, being brave behind my back but not so certain as my mascara-framed eyes stare them down.
"You know," I say, "It's too bad you feel so uncomfortable about yourselves that you have to ridicule me like that. That's a pretty weak and cowardly way to be, don't you think? I have to say that, even dressed like this," (and I pass my painted nails across my 38C's and my long legs, "I'm twice tha man of all of you put together."
Then, of course, I turn and re-join my wife, who stifles a laugh, and we go about our business, leaving the group behind. Before we pass out of earshot, I hear one of them start poking fun at the chief ridiculer for getting taken down like that.
Okay, not likely in any scenario, but as I said, I claim the excuse that I'm a writer.It's a cathartic fantasy.
