I what to know who makes up the rules, and when I find her I want her to change them, now! It may come as a shock to you, but life just ain't fair. With my new job I am living in a two room apartment all by myself on weekdays. My wife is in school two hours away from my apartment, which is two hours away from our (supposedly permanent) home, and we navigate from node to node on this triangular route each weekend. I thought life was supposed to get more stable when you hit your forties!
But I digress, being alone again means that for fifteen hours of each day (less overtime) I can revel in female attire. I can sleep in a nightgown, run around in bra and panties or full formal gown, and otherwise be as feminine as possible whenever I darn well please. I can be daring and eat spaghetti in a white lace blouse. I can sit at the computer with my angel sleeves dangling on the keyboard and full length skirt winding up in the chair wheels or wake up to the comforting feel of a stuffed bra and silky nightgown clinging to my body. I can spend hours at the sewing machine, enduring its snarling and make new clothes for myself. I can cook, I can read, I can do anything I want and wear a dress too. So why is it I just cannot force myself to put on a housedress and clean the place up?
Our culture defines housecleaning as a feminine pursuit. If life were fair putting on a dress would instantly motivate me to wash the dishes and sweep the floor. If you watch TV you know real women have a primal urge to lay about the place with spray can and dust rag, but somehow this facet of femininity has escaped me. The ultrafeminine joy of cleaning the bathroom has all the appeal of the material I'm supposed to be cleaning, no matter how much nylon, rayon, spandex and silicone is distributed over my body. I have to face it, I hate cleaning no matter what I'm wearing, and there is no one else to do it for me.
Perhaps the solution is to hire a housekeeper to come in and do it for me, but then I'd have to come up with a really inventive explanation for the panties in the laundry basket and the 46D bra hanging off the doorknob. Creating a convincing extemporaneous dissertation as to what I do with the padded corset may strain even my powers of fabrication. I've toyed with the notion of turning on every faucet in the place before leaving for the weekend and allowing the resulting tidal wave to cleanse the floor, but I really want my security deposit back. And I suppose letting the gerbils out of the cage to nibble up all the trash would simply make matters worse, especially as they are pregnant.
So anyway, I want to have a long and serious talk with whoever instilled the desire to crossdress in me. Just why didn't I get the full treatment? If you know where to find her, let me know. But meanwhile I have to take out the trash…
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