Early yesterday evening my wife and I shared a bottle of Chardonnay on poolside patio. Since I normally dress at home, I was fully, tho casually dressed, in a brown tank top, bra and forms, white/floral printed linen skirt, stockings and slides w/2" heels, a little neclace and faux diamond posts, and light make-up.
We had nearly finished a glass each when our next door neighbor Barbara, a lady in her mid-late 50's perhaps, tapped on the back gate and said she had gotten some of our mail by mistake. To my surprise and some embarrassment, my wife met her at the gate and invited her in for a glass of wine. So, there I was.
I blush easily and I'm sure that I turned a shade or two in that moment. I started to excuse myself, but my wife said something along the lines of "Oh, just relax", and Barb gave me a big smile and said how cute I looked. I know she was just being nice, but I appreciated the compliment. My heart raced for a few minutes nonetheless.
Barb said she had known about my dressing for a long time. Over the years, she had often seen me dressed in the back yard . We've frequently chatted through the fence when I've been dressed, and I could tell what she was wearing, so she could see me as well.
She seemed unphased by my appearance. The three of us talked a while about my dressing, and then took conversation turned to the spring weather, the frost damage to our tropical plants we took a little tour around our emerging flowers and plants. After finishing a glass wine, she excused herself to get home to her husband. (He evidently also knows but apparently doesn't approve of my dressing) She left saying that she thought it was great that I could express my feminine side and hoped we might get together again some time soon.
Afterward I asked my wife what prompted her to invite our neighbor in. She felt that we'd been neighbors for years thought it would be fun to have at least one friend who knew about me, so it just seemed like a good time to get it out in the open. I remain somewhat surprised but appreciative.
