This story began 54 years ago, when my sisters, who were 13 and 16, began dressing their 3 year old brother in girls clothes. At first, I believe they probably viewed it as harmless fun, as merely a diversion. But their brother, who had no one else to play with, loved the attention, and it grew to be a frequent event. When they came home from school, there was their little brother to dress up like a doll.

In time, they had somehow acquired clothes that fit the smallish boy better than bigger stuff. And the games continued. Would he be a princess, or just another little girl like they were? But of course, no girl would be complete without pretty hair, makeup and the like, and so their brother became their palette. Then my older (meaner) sister got married. I was 10 and my other sister was 20 and we could play together.

She dressed me, taught me how to do makeup, shared secrets and, most importantly, taught everything I needed to know about being a girl and growing up and (giggles) boys. She was also adorable - 5-2, size 0, cute a cup breasts and looked like Jessica Alba. Everything looked wonderful on her and I wanted (and still do) to look like (and perhaps be) her.

Unfortunately, sister 2 also got married and this 13 year old was all alone. She left a couple of things, including an adorable blue striped bikini, but I was left to play with mom's things, which were plain and not as cute as my sister's. (My sister and I never discussed our playtime again, and unfortunately she is no longer with us.) After my sister got married, I missed our playdates and tutorials. I tried to hide my interests, but somehow mom and dad must have known. They purchased the Autobiography of Christine Jorgensen, and they weren't progressive in that way, and certainly not in early 1970s. I found the book on a bookshelf, and read it and memorized it. It became a heavily worn paperback, and I assume mom and dad noticed that as well.

Then came college and roommates, and a period of latency, which lasted through graduate school when I moved back home (still trying on mom's stuff). The only time mom clearly knew about my ongoing play was when I tried on one of her bodysuits and told her I wanted one because it was comfy. She refused and never discussed it again.

Then came marriage. Over time, I was able to integrate panties into my life, explaining how much more comfy they are than men's stuff. My wife relented. Over time, I told her about my sisters and their playtime with me. She relented, allowing bras and nighties, and even pretty toes, but no skirts or dresses. That transition, shall we say, took 30 years. But I still yearned to be Allison, a name that I discovered was perfect for me last year. But dresses and skirts weren't to happen.

Fast forward to September 2016. I realized that a business trip to Chicago was the perfect chance to be Allison. Preparations began. I met lots of other gurls online who helped encourage me. Then I bought a skirt and blouse and matching sweater. Of course, there was the wig, which a friend in New York determined was right for me. And of course pretty open toed shoes, a necklace, clip-on earrings and a cute watch.

I was set. All I could do was think about the trip, and was scared to death. Would someone see me? Would someone attack me? Nope, nope. It was wonderful.

Well, I did it and it was heavenly. I came back from my all day meeting and immediately did my fingers and toes in Sally Hansen Pumped Up Pink. Then I got dressed, slowly putting on my earrings and matching necklace, and of course my pretty undies. My sister would have been proud. Then my skirt, blouse and the open toed shoes that showed off my pretty toes. I put on some makeup and my wig and was all set. I opened the door. The hallway was empty. I went to the elevator and pressed the button. It arrived and a woman from the hotel was on it. I stepped on, nodded hello and turned away. She responded, saying "hello."

Then out I went into the lobby. Nobody said a word, although the restaurant hostess nodded hello. Did she realize anything? Did she care? Then I went out the front door of the hotel, and guess what, I felt a release of tension that was so palpable it was as if an anvil had been removed from shoulders. Next, I walked roughly half a mile to Sephora, where I had an appointment for a makeover. Everyone there was terrific, sweet, supportive and friendly. The wonderful (and adorable - she looked so much like my sister and had the same body - it was as if my sister had returned to help me reveal myself) makeup consultant spent over an hour (it was only a 45 minute makeover) making sure that not only did I look beautiful, but she showed me everything, taught me (just like my sister did) how to apply my own makeup, and gave lots of tips, which always assuring me that I was beautiful and that she wanted to make my night special. She was so sweet and caring and made me feel so comfortable.

Then I met a Facebook friend for dinner at a busy restaurant. We entered, no one seemed to notice anything about me. We sat a a corner table, made girl talk and then got to know each other. It was totally relaxing. My friend made me feel so welcome. The meal was irrelevant, I could have flown home on the wings of my high. Then my friend walked me back to my hotel, making me feel wonderful and safe. And she took a few pictures, just for me. Next I returned to my room, and no one in the hotel lobby said a word. I was just another pretty middle aged woman returning to her room.

In my room, I took tons of pictures. I couldn't believe how pretty (and natural) I looked, how I glowed and how I looked exactly the way I wanted to look, like a classy lady who just had a wonderful night out with a friend. Alas, I did have to remove my makeup, as any woman must, before getting into my nightgown.

Overall, it was a dream of an evening. Not only didn't the world end, no one said a thing, no one made any nasty gestures, everyone either ignored me (so many friends told that was what would happen but I had to learn for myself) and I was merely another person walking around Chicago.

How did I feel? I felt like a little girl growing up for the first time. I felt like the girl my sister knew I was; only now, I know who I am and realize how well my sister (and I guess my parents) knew the real me. Although my friend just reminded me that the makeup wasn't the real part (although it is wonderful being so pretty), it helped me to show the world who I am. (Every girl should always go out with her makeup done so prettily.) I then had a peaceful beauty rest, knowing how much of me was finally revealed to the world.

All of the gurls and women who encouraged me were right, there really was nothing to worry about. I felt safe, the world did not end, and I didn't walk into everyone I knew in Chicago. I'm not sure when Allison will go out again, but I do know that when she does, her sister will be smiling down on her.