I’ve begun the final countdown of gestational glory and I’m loving every round inch. I feel decidedly feminine and enchanted, constantly. The only downside is the voracious heartburn that plagues me morning, noon & night. Last night was particularly awful, and I was awake most of the night in my unsuccessful attempt to sleep sitting up while holding my treasured bottle of Tums. Kept company by hilarious text messages that have me laughing, biting my lip and shaking my head at myself- I am only that much more thankful I have a very manageable situation like heartburn to deal with.
My darling friend Miss Fabulous had invited me to my first drag show, and I think part of my sleeplessness could be attributed to nerves.
I’m a huge fan of Rupaul’s Drag Race. I pine for a gay friend, daily. I love my girlfriends. I love my guy friends…. but damn what I wouldn’t give for a vampy mix of the two. A friend that can reminisce with me about boys that kiss well, and how much size really does matter, while sharing makeup tips and shoes. I love the beauty of my small town, I treasure the clean air, etc… but damn IT… we have a serious shortage of cross-dressers and gays.
So an invitation to a drag show? Absolutely yes please, and thank you.
I’m so pregnant, so sober, and so truly shy by nature. Add a little gin or vodka and hang the fuck on… but with a diet Coke in my hand I am as sweet and demure as it gets. So I’m nervous… and so tired after a night of acid reflux torment. I try to nap and think about everything I need to pull off this miracle night out. My favorite saddle shoes are 4″ heels and definitely not what you see in the maternity store. I must wear fake lashes and I need to master that big hair teasing the shit out of it until it’s made you 5 inches taller nonsense. I have one dress that fits… and it only fits because it’s Lycra. My beloved 36DD chest has grown to an impressive 36F. It takes a cocktail or 3 to get me out of the house with the ladies on display, and I’m armed with a diet soda or cup of tea. To put it mildly… I’m shaking in my stilettos and I feel naked before even getting my dress on.
But I can’t wait!!!
I meet Miss Fabulous for dinner at my favorite Italian restaurant and have to avoid all my favorite things because I only have three Tums in my pocket and I know I’ll be in hell for the show if I eat anything I truly love. Simple salad and water, and she asks how my first day of maternity leave has been. I’ve been working on a blog about the true perils of serving and the real assholes that make it difficult, while struggling with one aspect- the fact that my very least favorite customer is quiet discernible if I describe her in detail. I start to describe her, and recognition instantly flashes across the face of my dear friend. Fuck. Welcome to the hell of writing carefully in a small town.
We giggle about the irony of it all, and head next door, to the show. I’m nervously chewing my Tums and sipping ice water while we wait… when that same customer… otherwise referred to as “Crazy scissor-hands” walks up to say hello. Again…. I love the clean air. I love that my children swim in a beautiful crystal clear lake. I’m a crunchy mama and organic to my panties… but what’s a girl gotta do for a day of strangers? Is it so much to ask that my children’s teacher not be a douchebag ex-boyfriend of mine? Could I please spend a day without seeing a single soul I went to high school with? Clearly not.
I’m awkwardly sober and feel like my pregnant body has been shaved, perfumed and dipped in liquid latex. My darling friend is friends with the almighty drag queen. The gorgeous Misty Boxx walks over to say hello and I’m speechless. She’s tall, tall… with makeup so perfect it makes you lean in to look at the perfection of her lash lines. She has flawless skin, full ruby red lips and she smells like heaven. She has thighs that make you rethink every noodle you ever chewed happily and shoes I’d buy off of her feet. Everywhere I look, there are women too beautiful to be women… yet some of them are.
I must admit… my first thought when I met her was: “I wanna be a drag queen when I grow up.”
The music starts and they vanish, only to return momentarily in lacy minis and silky satin corsets. Misty walks out in a pair of my favorite black cheeky panties and a corset. I rethink the whole carb hater diet again when she spins in her stilettos and leans down to brush her cheek against mine and take the dollar out of my awkward hand. I’m struck head on by how utterly marvelous it is to be a girl. She’s soft, she’s glamorous and winks at me as she turns to strut away. Fuck me runnin, I love a dancer…. naked or clothed… nothing beats a confident woman taking her clothes off. I don’t care who you are or what kind of equipment you prefer, I’m right. I’m also struck by how much more feminine a man can be. His/Her thighs are so phenomenal in heels that it makes me want to go home and play in my closet.
There are skinny ones, chubby ones, some in dresses and some in panties. It’s all just… sensational. With one exception. Someone is vying for mother of the year, having brought her 5-6 year old son. He’s glued to an iPad and the queen with the microphone calls attention to it, making the whole room cringe a little and laugh at the same time. His mother is unaffected by the shame. It’s after ten, he’s seated between a bunch of adults waving dollar bills and she’s cheering with her empty martini glass and being actively ignored by the server. Thankfully after a few tipsy meddlesome mommies, she takes her little guy and leaves. Perhaps strangers aren’t all that cool, after all.
What are cool? Drag queens. If you haven’t been? You haven’t lived. Get your drag on and live a little!!! Sober or tipsy, pregnant or not- it’s one for the bucket list that you’ll want to experience again and again.
I’ll go with you… in my latex… or perhaps in stilettos and a corset next time.