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The inner drag queen
So. Tomorrow (or today, actually - it's 1:30 am) I am going to a Hallowe'en party. Now, what you should know about Hallowe'en is that it is my favorite holiday of all (natch) and that I love dressing up for it (natch twice), but I rarely get to dress up because I do not go to Hallowe'en parties ... because I am not not at my best in rooms full of people, particularly loud talkative somewhat inebriated people, particularly loud talkative somewhat inebriated people I don't know.
I do well with a maximum of three other people in the room. Beyond that I get overwhelmed.
Nonetheless I am going to a party. Susan of the Apocalypse invited me (Molly put her up to it) and I cannot resist the chance to play dressup. I may stay for five minutes before I panic and run for the door, but I will enjoy those five minutes. I have devoted quite a bit of thought and planning (yes, and shopping) to what I will wear. I believe it will be good.
Hallowe'en, I'm sorry to say, brings out a nasty competitive streak in me. I was never one of those evil people who's always dissing everyone else's outfits - but, heaven help me, I do that with Hallowe'en costumes. I walk down the street and frankly, I am seldom impressed. Once in a while I see a costume which really looks like work went into it - but usually I think: Good god, I could do better than that in my sleep.
Mind you, I recognize that not everyone approaches a costume the same way I do. To my mind, a good costume for Hallowe'en must be either:
A. So amazingly audacious, so outrageous, that it stuns everyone;
B. So sexy people want to rip it off;
C. (optimally) Both of the above.
It occurs to me that this line of thought (if I can't be sexy, I'll be outrageous; if I can't be outrageous, I'll be sexy) is a very drag-queen mentality - in the theatrical sense of "drag queen." So maybe Hallowe'en is when my inner drag queen rises to the surface.
If so, I have to face the possibility that my inner drag queen is something of a b**ch.
I am reminded at this juncture (I couldn't say why) of a Roommate of a Friend. While visiting the Friend, the Roommate came in and I noticed she was wearing makeup. I had never seen the Roommate wear makeup, but it would have been rude to point it out and ask what the occasion was. On the other hand, since she was eating dinner at ten p.m. - hardly her usual habit - I did feel it was safe to speculate aloud that she'd been out that evening.
"Oh, yes," she said cheerily. "I was at my boxing class."
Now, what kind of woman wears makeup to a boxing class? Really, this woman is small and demure and is probably out somewhere dressed as the Sugar Plum Fairy tonight. But the Friend assures me she has a core of iron, and that he isn't surprised in the least. "I'm just a sweet little demure thing, don't mind me - POW!"
I think that may be close to my ideal feminine personality, I'm sorry to say. Sweet and gentle and with a nasty left hook. Just in case.
But as I think I was saying: I love Hallowe'en. It's a good time to be transgendered. I can walk into the Danskin store (as I did on Friday) and say to the sales clerk, "No, it's for me" and damn the torpedoes. I can't do that the rest of the year. I can't even go into the Danskin store the rest of the year.
It's not so much that I don't get eyed suspiciously in late October - it's that I have an excuse, so therefore for once I don't care if I get strange looks or not. I got strange looks in Express, for example. Too bad. I love Express. I bought what I wanted and to heck with everyone.
To their credit, the clerks at every Express I've ever been in - and I've been in quite a few - have never been less than gracious. In general, the clerks are your friends, in that they are completely unconcerned. They just want to sell you clothes - they don't care if you're a three-headed alien. And sometimes you can take them into your confidence and then they're really helpful. A good salesclerk will usually know her merchandise well enough to be able to tell you instantly whether it will fit you. When you're a man in a women's clothing store, and a dressing room is out of the question, that's very important.
No, it's not the clerks I usually worry about giving me strange looks - it's the other customers ... including some women (there's one or two in every store) who are a little unhappy to even see you in the store at all, like you're invading their territory or stalking them or something. Those I can deal with - I just meet their gaze and they back down. It's the ones who think I'm a freak that make me want to shy away.
By the by, that's why I can't use the dressing rooms. The clerks would probably let me if it was up to them - but can you imagine how all the other customers would react?
Back when I was of a more Wiccan bent (those days are gone) I would spend Hallowe'en night in the most secluded outdoor spot I could get to. Meditating, I suppose you'd say, but "meditating" has always been a pretentious word to me. Just thinking. Usually with no clothes on.
Of course, secluded outdoor places are harder to come by around here, and the weather at the end of October is less forgiving. Oh, well.
Remember, Samhain is the end and the beginning of the Wiccan year. This is when you should be making your "new year's resolutions." This tradition descends from the fact that at this time of year, any cattle which weren't going to make it through the winter would be slaughtered. You, too, must get rid of weaknesses. The Wiccan way is to make a fire in a cauldron, write down your weakness, and toss it into the fire. But you can manage without a cauldron, I'm sure.
I have a weakness. Well, I have many, but the one I'm bringing to mind right now is that I'm way too concerned what other people think. After the last entry on gender - and wearing skirts in public in particular - the cry arose, as a single voice in unison, from my emailbag: "We don't think people will react as badly as you think they will."
You're probably all right. But it's very hard to actually do something about it.
Especially when I can work myself up into a frenzy of nervousness about something as simple as a neighborhood Hallowe'en party.
It's funny - the thought of walking six blocks or so through a zone full of drunken frat boys, in thigh-high vinyl boots and a miniskirt, doesn't intimidate me. But the thought of entering the front door at this party, and having everyone turn to see who came in - that scares me silly.
It also thrills the exhibitionist in me - assuming I am in control of the situation, and not the other way 'round.
Hence the drag queen mentality. The drag queen must knock 'em dead on first sight. That's the rule and the ambition.
Otherwise she wouldn't be able to face the crowd at all.
© Columbine
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