D-DAY
By Joannebarbarella
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D is for decisions. The day has come. As some of my coarser friends would say “Shit or get off the pot”. It’s now or never.

D is for dithering; decades of dithering.

D is for Dianne. As I looked in the mirror that morning I knew I had to do it. A lifetime of pretending to be someone who I was not was finally about to come to an end.

I stood in front of the mirror naked except for a pair of panties. I still had the package I was born with but I didn’t like to look at it any more than absolutely necessary. I had decided that it wasn’t worth getting rid of it. At sixty-plus I wasn’t going to be using it and I had no great desire to change my plumbing so that a man could insert his penis between my legs. A couple of snips had ensured that it was no longer pumping poison into my body.

My problem had never been about sex or sexuality, but about feeling comfortable in my own skin.

I looked at my breasts, newly augmented, and felt a surge of pleasure at the pure femininity that they expressed for me. I couldn’t help myself in fondling them and giving my nipples a tweak until they engorged and hardened into little rocks on my chest. My little girls stood firm and proud. They hadn’t had time to sag into sixty-year-old razor strops yet.

I realized that I was dithering again, delaying the moment when I had to step through that office door. I put on my bra, enjoying the feeling of the white lacy cups and the mounds of my flesh which filled them….one of the ultimate signs of womanhood….cleavage. To look down on those twin mounds and know that they were mine.

I had started taking hormones (at last) about nine months before and now I had taken a month off work to try to refine the changes that had taken place to my body before I finally exposed my real self.

After my bra came my pantyhose. They had to be black and 40 denier, enough to hide the varicose veins in my legs that accompanied my sixty-odd years. I thought my legs were pretty good but you can’t always hide the ravages of time.

What to wear? What to wear? I rummaged through my wardrobe, wanting something distinctive but not outrageous. I was, after all, going to the office, not a night club, although in some ways a night club would be easier....nobody would know me there. I finally settled on a plain white silk blouse coupled with a swishy black and white striped skirt and a black jacket with white piping to highlight it. I set them down on the bed while I did my make-up.

I had been taking lessons in how to do sophisticated but discreet make-up from a lady who specialized in make-overs for people like me. She was “one of us” and had plied her trade for thirty years. She was an expert and had taught me well.

I sat in front of my mirror and reckoned that the face-lift had been well worth the money. After four weeks all signs of the surgery had gone and I thought I looked at least ten years younger. As I applied the foundation and other creams, lotions and powders my confidence grew that I would be able to survive today. As she had taught me I took special care around my eyes without going overboard.

The coup-de-grace was of course my lips. I had indulged myself with collagen to give me that Angelina Jolie look…a total indulgence….there was no way I could ever look like her or be anybody’s idea of a pin-up girl at my age, but those lips! I could not resist. As I parted my lips and stroked on a coral pink colour I regretted all those wasted years. I was never going to be beautiful now but I hoped that I could pass as incognito and I was going to be happy.

Dressing took only a couple of minutes. I checked myself out in the mirror and then I added some simple pearl-drop earrings. My wig was ready to wear with a bit of combing out. My make-over lady had prepped it with a very nice everyday style. I pulled it on and fluffed it up to add that bit of body. After experimenting with various styles and colours we had agreed that I was blonde. In truth I felt a bit light-headed when I surveyed the results. Part of me still had difficulty believing I was doing this.

I stepped into my shoes, black naturally, with two and-a-half-inch chunky heels, a chisel toe and a gold band around the heel. I knew I could wear these all day without them killing me. I loved heels but I knew that they could cripple you if you overdid them.

Now almost ready to leave the house I packed my handbag. Repair cosmetics, tissues, money, keys, spare panties in case. What had I forgotten?

I paused at the front door and almost panicked, fear rising up to nearly make me throw up, then firmly shut the door behind me and minced to my car, bridges burning behind me.

Driving to work was no different to before even though I was dressed differently. I did take my shoes off and drove in stockinged feet for extra care as I didn’t want to be involved in any accidents. I drove into my usual parking space and nobody challenged my right to park there. I was early, so none of the other partners had arrived yet. That was actually normal. I was usually first in.

So… shoes back on and out of the car, heels clicking on the concrete across the car park in the open, heart thumping and waiting for the laughter to start. Nothing happened. I opened the door and entered the lobby and headed for my receptionist’s desk.

The moment of truth and my personal moment of terror. What would my long-time receptionist say and think? She had been with me for fifteen years and was the only employee I could never beat into the office. I sometimes thought she slept there, but if she did she must have had a concealed wardrobe with all her clothes there.

“Good Morning, Margaret.” My voice still needed some work.

She looked me up and down with that cool receptionist’s gaze. I froze, waiting for the ultimate rejection.
Instead she smiled at me; her usual warm, welcoming smile.

“Good Morning. Welcome back. About time you took yourself in hand. What took you so long?”

I gaped a little.

“How did you know?”

“Well, for a start you always treated us girls much better than any of the men, and there were lots of other little clues. Then it’s been obvious for months that you were up to something, and when you took the month off we ran a book that you would return as the person we all thought you should be.”

“We’ve been waiting for the day. May I say you look much better this way.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

“So what do we call you now?”

“D for Dianne.”

“No problem.”

I turned to go into my office.

“By the way, Dianne, love the outfit.”