The Southern Comfort Conference finished up, dear friends,
just last weekend, and your fickle Pen Pal was en scene, embedded, engaged,
bedecked, bejeweled and altogether beguiled for two glorious days of full Petra
immersion. This was my third visit, and SCC, is now pretty well established as where and how I wriggle out of the
summer cocoon and spin myself up in slinky silky stuff for a new life, a new season.
Still shocking too how natural and easy the chrysalis
is. Lasting too. Par example, I was in a drab social setting later that weekend, after my SCC time was over. There
I was, unshaven, butch wallet, no spritz of perfume behind the knee, and I
still had to absolutely bite my tongue when introducing myself to strangers.
Having spent the prior couple of days with “Hi! My name is Petra …”, I was
still quite in the habit. It took the full evening to comfortably find my way
back home to my more commonly known given name, with some damn near misses
along the way. I had to smile.
I had much to smile about.
This year, I chose to
stay at the host property, the Perimeter Crowne Plaza. Mrs. Bellejambes, you see is
quite concerned about Petra getting clocked making daylight dashes through our
close knit neighborhood. I take her point quite well. Yes, there does lurk a silly adrenaline junky within who rather enjoys the thrill, the sound of the drum pounding away
inside my amply padded chest cavity. That cheap thrill doesn’t tip the scale
when measured against the value of my wife’s peace of mind though. And on the
upside, a second or perhaps a third glass of wine would not be out of order if
I was only a short elevator ride from my crib rather than even a shortish
drive home. Virtue and necessity do accessorize perfectly from time to time.
And so I rose early Thursday morning, burned through the final
thousand requirements of the work week, set auto-reply
and phone messages for the long weekend, and stepped off the grid. I then took
a deep breath, the first in a series as it happens.
After that moment of calm collection, I proceeded to pack like a refugee.
Ginger Grant wheeled 3 full seasons of glittering evening gowns aboard the S.S.
Minnow for a 3 Hour Tour. Ginger Grant ain't got nothing (but looks) on me. I had been too damn busy to really have anything more than a
sketch of a wardrobe plan, and this absence of forethought showed in the
Sherpa-sized bail of gear that I schlepped across town. What really stands out
though are the things forgotten. A decent facial soap for instance, or hey
girl, would it kill you to bring a camera maybe?
No time for regrets on these matters though. It was time to
change time, to slow time down, to anticipate the change and savor it. First
things first, the room, Petra’s room. Not a place for either a chap or a
chaperone. Petra’s room. Unpack first, populate the drawers, drape the closets
and cover the counter tops with an orderly display of feminine occupation. The
last vestiges of drab me folded away, given the dignity of a plastic bag burial
and slid beneath the pillow array on the spare bed.
Time for another deep
breath.
Now for the body. Not the pressed and practical prep
of the man day. The patient, purposeful pamper, the care of the skin that
soaks in so much more than skin deep. The first autumn shave, all the shearing
and plucking and gumming the plumbing required to achieve my undoubtedly preferred
surface characteristic. Buffed, moisturized, painted and powdered, the body
feels new and young again.
Time then for the face. On with the wig cap and off with the
glasses, the eyes another year worse for the wear, the hands and fingers months
out of practice, but surely and slowly connecting with habits long gone but not
forgotten. An afternoon palette for the eyes, nothing too dramatic, thin as
they are, my own lashes with a few coats of lacquer will do. I am glad I
cleaned my brushes before putting them to rest in the spring. A couple of false
moves and uncertain strokes, nothing Q-Tips and Kleenex can’t obscure.
The foundation and powder shine up and smooth out things
well enough, some cheek color and lip contour. I
finish by reminding myself and a gentle reminder that I am a 50-something now,
and didn’t have soft facial contours and bee sting lips for starters. I
feel proud in a different way, a way unique to Petra-time.
Nails on now, and finally, the
crescendo moment of the coronation, the hair. It never fails to feel awesome. I can believe myself fully now.
I know now that I am really only short minutes away from the
world. Just the breath-catching moment as the dress hugs me in snugly. The shoes then, the jewelery, lovely big chunky things, the mist of fragrance, a
check of the contents of clutch, a last look in the mirror, and the last deep
breath of the day.
The one just before the door opens, and closes, clack,
locked behind you.
More later on so many lovely people and moments.. Nice to be back.
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