So this morning my wife heads out for what is supposed to be at least three-four hours out of the house and I think ... I have some new clothes that still need tags removed and why not dress? I thought about lipstick but the close shave and new breastplate was enough. Pants and a new blouse first, then into a lovely new black wrap dress. All the trimmings of course ... heels, hose, underwear, long dark wig ... and you know what's coming ...
About 90 minutes gone and I'm up in the finished attic and I think ... "Shit, was that the garage door opening?" Glance out the front window and see the tail end of her car pulling into the garage.
Now, I have jumped out of planes, and thrown live grenades, but this moment? Sheer, adrenaline surge of utter full-on "holy F!#^" panic and I rip everything off, hear the door to the house open and the "Hiya, I'm home!", cram it back into whatever box is open (stuff sorted by different boxes), jump into drab clothes, shove boxes into discrete corner (usually much better hidden) ... and hear steps coming up. Made sure to hop up and greet and keep her downstairs and chat and finnally, after an hour, get three minutes to re-hide my boxes (still unsorted and crammed) into the nook.
Note in the AM? Fold and straighten the crammed in stuff.
Just damn. Never, ever been that panicked or close to being discovered. It was not a fun few minutes that.
But remain closeted. Sigh.
