First of all, let me say that I am unquestionably, without a doubt, entirely heterosexual. I am married to Seth, the guy with the deepest voice in Madison County. So this column has nothing to do with my sexual preference. I am just sayin'. What this column has everything to do with is my clothing preference.
See, I am going to the Ball. The Mayor's Ball. And you know what that means: I have to wear a dress. And not just any old dress. A FORMAL dress.
It's a problem.
For those of you who have not personally met me, here is some information that is not widely circulated. When I was born, I cried for two weeks. My mother thought I had colic.
I miraculously stopped crying when she stopped dressing me in pink. Apparently I had a preference for blue, and a particular preference for denim. When I was seven ears old I wanted to march on Washington in support of pants for girls year-round in public schools. (I was pretty sick of the daily reveal of the color of my underwear on the monkey bars — and forget about phys ed class and the "bear walk" relays. That was just obscene). And when I was 15 years old I asked if I could have the word "Levi's" tattooed on my ankle.
So I called my good friend Glenda in North Carolina for technical dress support. Glenda understands my aversion to all things inseam-less, as well as my figure flaws and my inability to walk like anything female (even a female chimp). In the past she has accompanied me on bathing suit shopping trips. She likes to spend about an hour making me try on the most unflattering garments she can find, with the purpose of adding a few years to her life due to the hysterical laughing — then the final five minutes are spent trying on the single bathing suit she had saved for last, the suit she knew would look fine.