ARTICLE

The Miracle of Change

Of course, at times, I've been almost hopelessly eager to chuck the whole male bit and dissolve into the heady near outer-spatial cosmos of womanhood, as I see it and like to feel it. It does taste delightful in imaginings! But with that dream there always comes a following thought of hours under the hair-dryer, the need to incessantly wash my things, press my skirts, suffer bubbling apoplexy as I regularly snag my nylons, nix superficially amorous males and devil with that . . . on a permanent basis.

Now there ARE times when I adore washing and drying the under-seductiveness of my unmentionables, pressing out a dress to store-bought newness, even mending snags or sewing up a swinging skirt from a flat piece of material. Do love at times - fussing my hair into just the right waviness, the most telling bangs, the most subtly eye-catching spit-curls.

But only when I feel like it. Not because it has become a day-to-day necessity. When I'm a woman I want to enjoy every moment, every facet of it - even to snagging my hose.

Oh I've been a woman, sometimes, for weeks at a time. But then it's only exciting from time to time - although it's blessedly a relief to know I need only to change from this dress to that; rather than from this dress to THAT suit, that dull male pants and coat thing. But when I've lived my feminine self for a longish spell I lose the always-startling joy of changing genders; the ambrosia of the new image in the mirror. But if I assume my lovelier image only when the infinitely precious urge sweeps over me the flattery of a flippy skirt at my knees, my divine

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