August 15th, 2004

(no subject)

Almost every Sunday, from ages 2 through 17, I would go to church.
Southern Baptist church.
Yes, yes... how horrific, but bear with me: there's a point to all this talk of fundamentalism.
Sunday was the one day of the week when I was expected to look presentable, like a lady. I would wake up and get dressed in my finest clothes, which had been bought explicitly for church-wear. In my thick white stockings and patent leather Mary Janes, I looked sweet, dainty, pretty.
And my reward?
Listening to some greying evangelical pastor go all "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God" on a doe-eyed population. All that effort - the barrettes, the lacy collars, the Tinkerbell perfume - so I could sit still in a hard wooden pew for an hour.
Though peeved by this obvious waste of my tireless efforts to look innocent, I nonetheless grew attached to the ritual.
So began Sunday dress-up.
Some weeks, I know full well what I'm doing; I am my own doll, and I can make myself do, say, become whatever I want.
Others, it's like I'm on auto-pilot.
I instinctively pull out slips, pantyhose, low heels, transforming from a grumpy chain-smoking troll to a proper young woman who crosses her legs at the ankle.
So I sit here, in sensible brown Sam & Libbys and a sleeveless scoop-neck cat print dress, playing Sunday lady once again.
I just wonder sometimes who I'm doing this for, whose approval I seek.

Mine?
God's?
My folks, pretending the perfect heterosexual Christian daughter?

(xposted in _crossgender, thesexualsocial)
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