Something Feels Strange…

“You are right Marla, but he's much better than most men so cut him some slack,” Mom replies. “We don’t have time right now to settle scores. Why don’t you go warm up the register so we can ring things up as we make our selections?”

There is that time issue again. What is up with that? I know better than to ask as the only answer that I am likely to get is I’ll find out later.

Chapter 2:  Confusion

Turning to Laurie, Mom says, “Great dress, Laurie, only it will need a slip. Can you get my difficult daughter to help you find one in the right size?”

“Sure, Mrs. Quinn," Laurie responds. "Show me the way, Marla!”

“Okay, Jen," Mom redirects her attention to Laurie's mother, "let’s try the ‘B’ cup bra on your pretty young niece.”

Something just clicked. As I said, brain central is in shambles and hasn’t begun to organize all the input yet.

“Ah–Mom?” I ask. “What’s this ‘cousin’ and ‘niece’ stuff that you keep mentioning?”

“Unhook your bra sweetheart and we can talk about things while we try on the next one,” she attempts–successfully–to distracts me.

I look at her as if she just spoke to me in Greek. The look of confusion is the result of her instruction about removing the bra. I have studiously avoided knowing anything about the mechanics of bras all my life and have no idea how this is done.

Mrs. Mercer comes to my rescue. “Chris, darling, there are hooks on the back of your bra.” She holds up one to show me. “Just reach around behind you and unclip them.”

That piece of advice seems easier said than done, but I give it a try anyway. Wow! I appear to be more flexible than I remember. After a bit of fumbling, the hooks come loose and and so does the bra. A shrug of the shoulders and the item is off.

“Now for the hard part,” Jen says smiling gently as she hands me the new bra. “Try putting this one on.”

I get the distinct feeling I am being set up for a learning experience. Putting my arms through the obvious straps, I have to pull the front down to cover the breasts. This means that I have to look at them. Oh boy–brain central is screaming at me to avert my eyes and remove my hands. Apparently, the reprogramming is still in progress.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Mom encourages. “You can touch them. They're yours.” Did I mention that Mom reads minds as well?

Her advice doesn’t help much.

Overriding brain central with great effort, I force my hands to loop the band under MY breasts then reach around to try the clasp in the back. Things aren’t working out very well. I can’t get the hooks to match with the eyes. Also, my breasts and the cups are not staying aligned.

Of course, this is the time that Marla returns with Laurie. Both girls break into giggles. I turn red and look up to notice that both mothers are trying–unsuccessfully–to hide smiles as well.

Laurie sees my distress and once again comes to my aid. “Chris. Sorry but you do look cute doing that. We are forgetting that we all had the benefit of watching our mothers and sisters dress before we had to put on our first bras but you haven't.  Maybe we should give you some advice.”

I am more than willing to take her up on her offer at this point. "What do I do?"

“Begin by wrapping your bra around your waist so that the clasp is in front," Laurie directs. "Now hook the clasp using the last row of eyes. Good. Now spin it around so the clasp is in the back then work it up your torso until the cups are in place. There. Now slip your arms through the shoulder straps: if you lean forward you'll find it's easier to settle your breasts in the cups. Now, wasn’t that easy? When you get more practice you will be able to put your bra on the other way without any trouble, but many of us prefer this other method.”

I follow all these instructions under the watchful eyes of my keepers. It is difficult–make that impossible–to ignore my new breasts as I fasten the hooks. As I lean forward as directed, hair falls into my face, mercifully partially obscuring my vision. When I straighten up things are still not comfortably settled.  After pushing my hair back, I realize that there is nothing I can do but reach up and adjust my breasts in their holders. As I prepare to do this I am getting frantic messages from brain central that I could go a lifetime without knowing this skill and that I am going to get in big trouble for feeling this girl’s breasts. I guess brain central still hasn’t gotten the memo about the sex change.

After completing the task, I close my eyes and hold my hands a safe distance away from the girl’s body. “Thanks Laurie, that helps.”

The inspection team closes in and examines the new installation from all angles. Mom tugs a little here and there checking the fit.

Mrs. Mercer asks. “Does it feel too tight, darling? It looks snugger than the first one.”

It is a little snug in the breast region, however–unlike test number one–this one actually feels as if it has the jiggling mass of flesh under control.

“It does seem snug–but not tight," I respond, brushing the hair out of my face again. "At least my chest seems to be under control now. I guess that I will have to try it for a while or try on a few more before I know if it is the best fit possible. I just don’t have the experience to tell.”

The general consensus of the inspection team is that the current option is more than adequate.

Laurie notices the hair issue. “I saw some barrettes over at the sales counter," she says. "It looks as if you could use one to keep that hair out of your face. I’ll grab one for you.” 

Within seconds she is back with a wide metal clip with a bow on it. The bow is hot pink. I have seen things like this before.  My sisters and other girls I know use them. She quickly pulls my hair back into a flat ponytail-like arrangement and secures it with the barrette.

Turning to the her two young assistants the Project Manager asks, “Did you find a slip for our girl?”

The girls hold up a white slip for inspection. After checking the size, Mom asks them to help me into it.  She is beginning to realize that I don't know anything about donning feminine apparel.  The fact that my eyes are still tightly closed should also communicate that I am still not comfortable being around the scantily clad girl who is the object of their attention.

They pull the slip over my head and settle it into place. A new round of urgent messages flood brain central. The sensuous feel of the nylon fabric is setting off a thousand alarm bells from almost every affected surface. No T-shirt EVER felt like THIS!

By this time brain central is getting tired of all the alarms and fails to respond. The incoming messages are just added to the overflowing inbox for analysis once the backlog is whittled down. The only message that comes back is to 'go with the flow. We’ll get back to you later'!

The fabric feels so… how do you describe it? Smooth? Slick? Lightweight? It slides back and forth with a smoothness I have never before experienced. It sends shivers up and down my spine.

I think the gallery realizes that I am trying to come to grips with the new sensation.

Marla–in an uncharacteristically friendly tone–says, “Doesn’t it feel great? It'll feel even better on your legs once you get rid of all that hair.”

“Yeah–you’ll need to shave those legs pretty quick girl," observes Laurie. "Your arm pits as well. We’re not in Europe you know.”

What on earth does this have to do with Europe?  Another mystery.  This one is low priority but gets added to the inbox with all the others.  I just want things to move through to some sort of conclusion, so I don't pursue this side mystery right now.

Feeling sufficiently covered I open my eyes and look suspiciously at my sweet sister who has a contrite expression on her face.

“Sorry Chris,” she apologizes sincerely. “I guess I was out of line earlier. I know that you've never been intentionally mean to me and it was unfair of me to toy with you. I admit that I am a bit jealous too. You've got a great figure without any real fat. I've worked hard to get that way and can’t quite make it. You're slender from the first day you are a girl! It's so unfair. Anyway, girl, I’m sorry.”

Have the aliens swapped out my sister? I guess that lots of strange, unexplained things are happening tonight. Maybe Laurie had a chat with her while they were selecting the slip. I still think that I will need to keep an eye on her.

Now that I am somewhat covered I figure that it is safe to peek in the mirror again. The girl is not completely decent, but at least she is covered. She is also kinda cute. A lot like my girlfriend. If I wasn’t already going with Laurie I might be tempted to her ask out. Oops! Mixed messages again. That girl is me. Read the memo brain central!

Yes, there is a strong family resemblance to Laurie. I realize that my question about nieces and cousins was sidestepped again. These gals are pretty good at redirecting my attention!

“Ah… Mom? Remember we were going to talk about this niece and cousin business?” I say in vain hope of some answers.

“Sure, sweetie, let’s just get this dress on you first.” She sidesteps again. She must be a great dancer. I’ll have to ask Dad when I see him. I know better than to push the issue so I just sigh and submit to the next indignity.

The dress in question looks very similar to the one that Laurie is wearing.

Here verbal description gets more difficult for me. (I am not providing pictures–even if there were some–particularly of the early stages of this project!) Up to now it has been hard enough to communicate about the items that I have been modeling since I don’t know all the different types of lingerie. For example, I didn’t know that there could be more than a couple of types of underpants–I mean–panties. Now I know that there are at least thongs, hipsters and French cut panties, and probably a many options as well, though as yet, I am not yet entirely clear on the precise definitions. And looking closer at the racks of bras in my immediate vicinity it appears that there is a multitude of different types of those too. I am sure that each has its purpose but, as a guy, that knowledge hasn’t been important to me. If this girl thing is permanent then I have a lot to learn.

I'm sure that I am unqualified to even name the multitude of colors!

Like all guys, my only classification of women’s attire is that there are dresses, skirts, shirts–that would be blouses/tops;–, pants–some jeans. others nicer–and shorts.  Each item category with its own infinite number of subcategories. The subcategories and their definitions have not been even remotely important to me. Until tonight. As a boy it has been sufficient to simply know the broader definitions. I have known what I like to see on the women in my life, but that doesn’t mean that I know what it is called.

So, you ask, what type of dress is Laurie wearing? Let me give you the details from a guy’s perspective. It is of moderate length, stopping maybe an inch or two above the knee. It follows her figure without being tight. I mean you can see–and appreciate–all her curves in all the directions. The skirt flares out a bit as it goes down. The top part has no collar but is kind of a rounded shape that loops down to just above the breasts. You see a bit of chest but only just a hint of cleavage. It also has short little sleeves that are only a couple of inches long. It zips up the back. (I have always wondered how they can zip it up without help. I guess I am going to find out!). Oh… and its general color scheme is black, though there is some trim and stuff that is grey and white.

I’ve seen her in the dress a couple of times and she knows that I like it. But I couldn’t tell you–in female terms–anything more about it, other than it is a dress. See what I mean? I doubt that the explanation was too useful to anyone interested in getting an accurate mental image.

If I wasn’t trying to describe the dress to you, the phrase, “She looks hot!” would just have about covered it for me.

Anyway, back to the matters at hand. Laurie holds the dress up for inspection by the mothers and says, “see, we can be twins!” It apparently meets with approval so the garment is offered to me.

Holding it up at arm’s length like it was going to scorch me, I try to figure out how to put it on. By now, the question as to whether or not I should put it on is irrelevant. Brain central is still struggling with the overloaded inbox and says to 'just go with the flow until further notice. Regardless of recent events, these gals (with one mild exception) have always had your best interests in mind.'

There are more smiles all around on the faces of the inspection team. At least Marla’s smile isn’t mischievous this time.

In fact Marla reaches over and unzips the dress for me. “Okay Chris you can either step into it like a pair of jeans or you can pull it over your head like a T-shirt.” At least she is talking my language. “I recommend pulling over your head since the slip might ride up if you go the other way, then you will have to work at getting the slip back down again. Let us help you.”

Help is welcome. But help from Marla is taken with caution. Fortunately Laurie gets in the act too, so I’m not so paranoid. Laurie has been a good sport–for the most part–and has always treated me with respect in the past.

In short order the dress is draped on my body and Laurie zips up the back. Time for serious review by the inspection team. They have me spin. They walk around me, tugging and straightening here and there. Mom gets a little fresh adjusting the front around my breasts but she is all business.

“Well,” Mrs. Mercer says to the team, “it looks pretty good. Maybe a little loose in the bust and waist, but not more that you’d expect from a department store dress. A little padding up top would take care of the bust. We’ll have to add a couple of padded or pushup bras to the list.”

“I agree," observes Mom. "another size up would be too big and another size down would be too tight,”

“She looks pretty good. We look even more like relatives now,” Laurie adds. I notice that she gets some kind of look from the mothers that communicates the idea that she just said something wrong. Apparently they want to stay away from relation issue for some reason. I don’t. I’m starting to think that it is important.

“Uh–about the relative thing…” I inject to the conversation.

“We definitely need to do something with her legs,” Marla observes, obviously ignoring my comment and attempting to redirect my attention. “The hair is just so gross. Pantyhose and some heels would almost complete the look. A bit of work on her hair, makeup, and some jewelry would top everything off.”

None of these comments are addressed to me. Yep, I am a life size Barbie doll and the girls are starting to have fun. I am getting the feeling that things are just getting started for them.

Turning to the mirror, I see what Laurie means. The girls do look related–like sisters. She steps up beside me and puts her arm around my waist. She does one of those weird girl-hug things where she scrunches up her shoulders and puts her head next to mine–and giggles like girl friends do.

If the other girl had heels on like Laurie, they would be the same height. They appear, to my untrained eye, to be essentially the same size. While not identical, the dresses complement each other well.

Laurie has her hair done in a fancy braid of some kind. The other girl has unkempt hair that needs a brush and a trim.  The barrette helped quite a bit. Well actually, the hair needs more than a trim–it needs some style. It looks as if it has been totally ignored for years and allowed to grow wild.

Then there is the makeup issue. I don’t normally notice Laurie’s makeup–even though I know that she spends a lot of time at it. Standing side by side with nature girl, however, it is very obvious that Laurie has on nicely applied make up while the other girl does not. The other girl could benefit from some.

“Well, what do you think?” Laurie asks me.

“I think she's cute,” I observe. I’m feeling a little more at ease now that there are no naked women around. After that situation, being merely uncomfortable in the Junior’s section of the store doesn’t seem so bad. It is amazing how a bad situation suddenly becomes insignificant after being faced with a worse one.

“She is you,” points out Mrs. Mercer.

I just stare at the mirror trying to comprehend the connection between me and the cute girl in the mirror. Could that really be me?

“Time to get down to business,” Mom says breaking the spell. “Time is short.  The dress will do nicely. Let’s keep it.”

Whatever happened to asking the poor girl if she wanted it? Apparently her views aren’t important tonight and I am beginning to feel a somewhat sorry for her. That is until I am reminded–once again–that she is me and I am her. But then I haven’t a clue about what this girl likes or needs in the way of clothing.  She really does need the help being provided by the assembled professionals.

“We have identified her sizes now we need to start making the selections,” Laurie’s mother states. “We're going to need some luggage also.  Maybe now would be a good time to get a couple of suitcases to put everything in.”

Suitcases? Where did that come from? Another mystery.  I know that I don’t know what is going on, but suitcases? Apparently the girl is going traveling.

“Marla, where's the travel section?” Mrs. Mercer asks. “I’ll go get what she needs.”

“It's in the back corner of the store,” Marla waves her hand in the general direction and Mrs. Mercer takes off.

“Chris, we need you to take off the clothes you're now wearing so Marla can ring them up,” Mom says. “Turn around dear, and I'll unzip you. If you want to use the changing booth, go ahead.”

After Mom's assistance, I dive into the booth; it feels good to be out of the spotlight, so to speak.

“I just need the sales tags from the panties and bra ,” Marla says, “but pass out the dress and slip and I’ll ring them up and fold them for you.” She passes me a pair of scissors to remove tags on the underwear.

It seems easier to drop the dress down and step out of it, so I do. The slip comes off over my head. I don’t think that it would go over my newly expanded hips very easily.

Wait a minute! Did brain central just refer to these hips as my hips? It appears that brain central is starting to make some connection between the girl and me. And it doesn’t seem too concerned about the connection. As I check in with central control, the message that seems to be coming back is 'don’t fight reality'. My response is 'what is reality? '

The brewing mental investigation is interrupted–yet again–by the project manager prompting me to get with the program. The schedule–apparently–is still slipping. I hand over the required garments to the head boss.

I can’t seem to find the sales tag on the bra. It must be in the back. There is only one way to find out–it must come off. The best approach for doing this appears to be to reverse the process that I used for putting it on. I still need to work on the reach around behind method.

I find that slipping off the straps, slipping the device down to my waist and turning it around is sufficient to expose the tag. It also exposes the breasts. Which sets off warning bells–again. I find the breasts to be quite a distraction but I can’t close my eyes because then I couldn’t deal with the tag.

“Come on, sweetheart, times a wastin’,” prompts the project manager.

Focus on the task–not the (my?) breasts. Focus. Focus. Focus. I can do this!

The tag is removed, the bra quickly reinstalled, and eyes averted. The adjustment of breasts in the cups is emotionally difficult again and sends two conflicting messages to brain central. The hands send warning messages that they are in forbidden territory while the breasts themselves send a message that says it feels kind of nice. Confusion reigns. I hope that we can soon negotiate some kind of settlement between the training of my brain and my new body!

The sales tag from the bra is handed over. Fortunately, the sales tag for the panties is hanging by its little plastic string from the side of the garment. I can keep them on. Breasts are bad enough. Looking at or feeling around the other new equipment is more than I can deal with right now. It is sufficient to know right now that all is not like it used to be down there.

The tag is removed and follows its predecessor to the cash register.

There is a mirror in the booth but I am not looking at it. I stand with my back to the mirror with eyes pointed anywhere other than at the scantily clad young woman in the booth.

While I am doing this Mom sends Laurie out for some pants and tops. Since we are essentially the same size she knows what to look for–it is like shopping for herself.

Mom–in the mean time–is making a list.

She calls over to Marla. “Marla, sweetheart, while you are waiting can you start picking out some panties and bras for everyday use without being hard on Chris? You know, like what you would wear? We are looking for at least a couple of week’s worth and we also need to plan for special occasions. A couple matching bra and panty sets would be nice too. Remember that Jennifer and I will be reviewing what you pick.”

“Sure, Mom, I’ll be a good girl and play nice this time,” she replies contritely. “I think I know the perfect bra and panty set to go with the dress. Black would be best I think.” She hurries off to the start the search.

I’m not sure what happened to the joker but she seems to be trying to be nice. I still don’t trust her.

Trying to not look at yourself while trapped in a small space is hard work. Particularly in a small booth that has a mirror and not much more than a seat for distraction. I manage mostly by keeping my eyes tightly closed.

It is a relief when Laurie returns with more garments for the girl to try on.

Jeans! I know about jeans–I live in them every day. Finally, I feel as if I am in familiar territory again.

She passes the jeans to me over the door and I eagerly slip them on only to find that there is a problem: These are not your typical guy jeans. For one they are a bit snug in places where it would not be good for boy’s jeans to be snug. They also don’t come very high on my hips. My underwear is showing–big time. Not to mention the interlocking little hearts embroidered on the back pockets are strange.

“Uh… there is a problem here,” I mention hesitantly.

“Let me see,” Mom directs as she opens the cubical door–without permission.

Apparently privacy is not a concern among these shopping women. This is a new revelation to me since they have always made a big deal about privacy whenever I have been around before.

“They are a little low but otherwise they seem fine to me,” she says. “Marla has tried to get away with lower. The inseam is the right length to.  You just need the right panties. Laurie, will you go find some bikini panties for Chris?”

“Sure, Mrs. Quinn," she responds with enthusiasm. "I’ll be back in a flash. I know just where to find them. I’ll make sure that Marla has at least three or four pair in the pile that she is assembling.”

True to her word she is back in no time at all. She must have done a grab and run job.

“Here,” she bubbles, “these will be perfect. Try them on. I’ve already given the sales tag to Marla.” She is really getting into this.

The panty is very small and has a leopard print. It is also very smooth and shiny–obviously they are not cotton. What happened to the simple days? She notices my questioning look.

“They are made from microfiber. You’ll find them very comfortable,” she says enthusiastically.

Diving back into the booth, I look at the wall while removing the jeans and blue panties. I DO NOT want to look in the mirror right now. With as little intimate contact as possible I slip on and adjust the new undergarment then pull the jeans back on. Running my hand over the crotch to settle the fabric in place is an unsettling affair. It is just so darn smooth down there!

Well at least the underwear doesn’t show. It is barely covered by the jeans. Running my hands over my backside, the shape seems all wrong but it is not the jean’s fault–my butt seems to have grown immensely and is more rounded than it has ever been. I’ve never gone for the low rider jean look before so it is hard to get used to jeans that feel like they would fall off if they weren’t painted on.

Mom pops the door open again–without permission. I wish that she would stop that!

“Hm… the jeans look much better with the right panties,” she observes as she has me do a slow spin just outside the booth. Apparently she doesn’t notice my frustration with her violation of my space. “We need to get a nice belt that will go with those. Now try on this top.” She hands me a floral patterned shirt that has a purple color theme.

I slip back into the booth. I’m starting to think that the booth is not doing much given the freedom that the my consultants feel in invading the space but I still feel more protected in here.

I look at the shirt. Only this is not really a shirt–I am informed that this is a 'top' or 'blouse'. For one, the buttons are on the wrong side. This causes some confusion at first but it works out after I catch on. Also, the fabric is pretty thin. Almost translucent. Swell–you’ll be able to see the bra under the shirt and probably the poor girl’s belly button as well. Finally, it seems to be missing the top four or five buttons and the fabric that goes with them. It does have a collar–of sorts. The top is also too short to tuck into the jeans–which don’t have room for any tucking anyway. As a matter of fact the shirt–sorry... top–barely reaches the jeans. It has sleeves that come to just above the elbows.

After donning the garment I pop the door open–before Mom gets the chance–and step out for inspection. After having heard frequent arguments between Mom and my older sisters over the years, I know what is coming.

“This won’t do,” Mom declares emphatically. “Too much skin for a young girl. Particularly between the jeans and shirt. The bodice is not going to work either. There is just too much cleavage showing.  It is also too shear. Laurie can’t you find a better top?”

“I figured that you might say that. Too bad, she is slender enough to pull this off without being a muffin top,” sighs Laurie. “Anyway, I picked up this black camisole to go with it.” She has apparently anticipated the objection.  She is holding up what looks a tank top with strings for shoulder straps. It has lace trim on the bottom and top seams. This must be a camisole. I’ve seen her wearing one before under similar shirts (tops?).

I grab the camisole and start back for the dressing room.

“Chris, sweetheart, we are running behind schedule,” the master scheduler points out. “Why don’t you just put it on out here? It will save a lot of time. You were never this private as a boy.”

"Mom!" I exclaim.

“After all, sweetie, we are the only ones here right now,” she adds, "and we are all girls." She is obviously including me in the comment. I guess that I do have the right equipment to meet the description.

I turn my back on the two inspectors and fumble with the buttons–why can’t they be the same as what I’m used to?–finally managing to shed the top. I slip on the camisole. Again while trying to ignore the breasts. It does cover a couple of inches of the jeans and more of my chest. Back on goes the top. The added benefit of the camisole seems to be in hiding what is under the top a bit better. I guess having the camisole peek out from under the shirt–top… sorry!–is some kind of a fashion statement.

Turning around for inspection, I see approving nods from Mom & Laurie. Marla comes over to see what’s happening and apparent thinks that it looks good to.

The best thing of all is that I feel better not being around the naked girl.

Turning to look in the mirror I see that the cute girl is looking pretty hot for being ‘casually’ dressed–even with bare feet. Yes, if it weren't for my relationship with Laurie I'd be tempted to ask her on a date. That is if I was really me again.

Marla collects the sales tags for the camisole, jeans, and top and returns to the register.

About this time, Mrs. Mercer comes back dragging a large suitcase and one of those small type that fit in the overhead bins on airplanes. They both have wheels so that you can drag them along and–of course–they are coordinated. She has also found one of those small backpacks with the thin straps that hang way down the back that many young girls have been carrying around in recent years.

“Look at what I found!” she enthuses. “And it’s on sale too. This is a pretty good brand and should last a long time.”

“Ah… what’s with the little dorky backpack?” I ask. I have to draw the line somewhere!

“What is wrong with the backpack?” She defends. “I think that it's cute. You will need something bigger than your average purse when you are traveling.”

Who said anything about a purse? Or traveling for that matter!

“Mom,” interjects Laurie, “those types of packs are so out of style and really don’t hold that much anyway. That is why it is on clearance.”

“Besides it is just too weird," I point out. “Can’t I just use my school book pack?”

“I suppose,” she relents with a frown. “I’ll put that one back but I’ve seen your backpack and it is a mess. Maybe I can find something more feminine and looks as if it will survive the week.” Yea for small victories! Maybe–maybe she won't have time to find the backpack replacement.  After all, we are on a schedule I'm told.

Getting things back on track Mom starts issuing orders again. “Laurie, why don’t you and Chris go look for some more tops and another pair of jeans? A pair of capris and/or slacks would be nice also. I think about four more tops are needed for now. Nothing too tight or revealing. Your mother and I will review the underwear that Marla has chosen and start packing the suitcases as the items are rung up. When that is done, we will start looking for some nice skirts and a few more dresses. We can’t forget hosiery and shoes. Bring your selections back here for Chris to try on. Time is running short so ladies let’s get a move on!”

Laurie grabs my hand and drags me off towards the jeans and tops. I keep pulling up on my jeans because they feel like they are falling off. It's a good thing that the anatomy down south has changed because each time I tug my pants up I'd smash anything that was down there. Now there is nothing to smash. This feeling is not lost on brain central. Unfortunately there isn't anything in the current programming that knows how to deal with these sensations. The input is relegated to the overflowing inbox for further study–when time allows. If there ever is any such time.

Once we get away from mission control I whisper to Laurie, “Can you PLEASE let me know what is going on here? Why, all of a sudden, am I a girl? No offense, but I don’t really want to be a girl. And why the big hurry to do all this shopping? Can this be reversed? What’s this about being your cousin? Why is my girlfriend now just my girl friend? What’s this...”

“Be quiet!” she cuts me off with an urgent whisper. “You don’t have too many questions, do you? Like we've already told you, there isn't time now for the full explanation at the moment. Besides, it is probably best if you don't know right now. You'll understand why later. Honest. Just trust us and go with the flow. You have to believe that I wouldn't do anything to hurt you. Come on now, we really need to focus. Now, what would you like in the way of a top? We should get a few things that mix and match with your other clothes.”

Ugh!! I’d really like to scream right now. “You’re not going to help me out here are you?”

“Oh, I’m going to help out you alright" she assures me. "Just not how you’d like me to help you right now. Believe me–you’ll thank me later. Anyway, you didn’t answer my question: What would you like in the way of a top?”

Talk about not answering questions! It seems to be the trend tonight.

“The only ‘tops’ I want,” I grumble, “are shirts in the men’s section across the store! But, that's not going to happen, is it?"

She shakes her head and I continue, "Look, I don’t know anything about ‘tops’. I know that I like to see a girl wearing nice clothes but I am usually focused on the girl.  I have never looked at a girl to analyze what she is wearing so that I can replicate the look.”

“I guess that make sense,” she admits. Score another point for the good guys! “How about letting me select a few more tops for you while you look at the jeans across the aisle? Just don’t get the same ones that you have on. You need variety when you are a girl.”

“Deal. You find the tops and I'll find some decent jeans. Are there some with higher waists than these?” I ask. It seems more productive to me to help with the search. Maybe I can find some like my old 'guy' jeans.

“Sure, and lower too," she says. "Also in a variety of colors. I think that black or burgundy would look good on you. Go ahead and check it out. Just don’t take too long.”

There is that time thing crunch again–I'm getting tired of hearing about time.

The array of jeans available is almost overwhelming. I thought that this would be easy. Well I’ll make it easy! Finding a pile of blue denim I start looking for something with a tall waist and maybe a little looser. Sticking to the stated size I find a couple of likely pair that don’t seem to be too ornate.

Glancing in Laurie’s direction, I note that she is totally focused and going through the racks like a woman possessed. She already has at least a dozen tops for me to check out.

I have never seen this side of her. It's scary.

Getting her attention by getting in her face, I let her know that I am heading back to the dressing room. On the way, I pass a rack of belts. As I am tired of tugging at my pants I take a quick look. There are lots of different styles but they seem short on plain leather belts. The closest that I can come is a white leather belt with flashy bits of metal studs arranged in patterns on it. A quick check shows that it is the right size so I grab it.

Mom is already back at the dressing room with a stack of skirts. She is checking her list. I can see Mrs. Mercer going through racks of dresses.

“There you are!” Mom exclaims. “I was about to come get you. We are…”

“...running out of time,” I finish her sentence. “I have heard that already.”

“Sorry, sweetheart, but it is true," she says. "I wish that we had enough time to really enjoy this.  Maybe another time. Let’s finish with your jeans then we can move on to these skirts until Laurie gets back with the tops. Before you take those jeans off though, why don't you try that belt on?”

By this time brain central has pretty well shut down and is along for the ride. New information is coming so fast that brain central is no longer trying to keep up. Maybe after enough information comes in there will be enough to piece together the puzzle but for now, not even the edge pieces are all there. Even if they were new inputs are occurring too rapidly to allow me to sort through those already in the inbox.

The only thing that brain central is scanning for at this time is threats of physical harm. The anxiety level is down to just 'let’s just ride this out' level. Seeing nothing that appears to be physically dangerous I set the jeans on the small bench in the changing booth and thread the belt through the loops on my current jeans. The booth door is left open as closing it only seems to slow things down–t doesn't keep anyone out anyway.

Marla, who is waiting for more stuff to ring up, comes over to join the inspection team. She likes what she sees.

“Did you pick out that darling belt all by yourself?” She asks.

After receiving an affirming nod from me she continues “Wow, I didn’t know you had any fashion sense! It looks perfect with that outfit. I’ll have to borrow it sometime!” I obviously scored another point.

I guess that the belt is a keeper. Maybe having clothes that Marla can borrow will put her on her best behavior. She can be a nice girl when she wants something!

My size is not too much different than Marla's–I think–though she is maybe an inch shorter and a little more plump–not fat mind you–but don’t tell her that. She is eternally dieting and I pretty sure she likes to have something to complain about. She thinks she's as fat a pig ready for market even if no one else thinks so.

“Okay, sweetheart, take the jeans off," Mother directs, "and let Marla have them and the belt. Marla, make sure that those go in the smaller suitcase.”

Looking at the wall again I slip off the jeans and hand them over. Quickly grabbing another pair, I put them on without looking down. These jeans–thank goodness–are a bit taller in the waist. They are contoured for the girl’s shape and won’t fall off since they curve over her hips. The waist band is definitely smaller than the hips but is pretty loose around the waist. At least there is room to tuck in a shirt–top… sorry! The legs have a little room in them too–they feel nice.

Mom starts tugging at the inseam and waist band. “A bit loose at the waist, but they fit very well on the hips. You have a small waist, sweetheart, so I guess that is to be expected. I like the fact that they are a bit more modest than the other pair. These will be good for more than standing around looking pretty. Good choice. What do you think, sweetheart?”

This ‘sweetheart’ business is getting old. It could be worse I guess–she could be calling me ‘princess’–so I decide that it is not worth fighting over.  At least she asked my opinion this time. Peeking in the mirror I respond “I think that she looks good in them Mom, I think that we should add it to her wardrobe.”

“Great! We’ll hand them over to Marla," Mom declares. "Oh, by the way, 'she' is you. You might want to start thinking that way.”

Brain central seems to have ignored the comment connecting me with the girl in the mirror. I am not ready for that connection quite yet either so we move on without reply.

Off come the jeans and on go the next pair. These fit better in the waist but are a bit tight in the hips so they go in the reject pile as I try on the last pair that I picked up.  They are keepers though I think that the legs are a bit tighter than I feel comfortable with–they leave little to the imagination.

“Didn’t you get any slacks, sweetheart?” Mom asks.

“Well, no,” I reply. “I don’t know anything about girl’s slacks.”

“I’ll send Marla to find some,” she says. I roll my eyes at that. Calling over to her, Mom says, “Marla, honey, will you get Chris a couple of pairs of slacks? With summer coming, I think that she should have something like Capri pants. Get at least one white pair. They need to be nice enough for wearing to work.”

With marching orders in hand Marla is off. Hasn’t Mom learned to not trust Marla yet?

The project manager approves the current pair of jeans which are now destined for the suit cases. She hands me a denim skirt.

At this point brain central unexpectedly kicks into gear. Skirts are foreign territory. Back when the dress was installed, the brain was distracted with a tsunami of danger signals and did not have time to focus on this kind of threat. Now that it has given up on trying to make sense of the situation, it still is trying to identify new threats to peace and harmony. A skirt is one of those things. It is not exactly sure why, but the approach of the skirt sends out wild warnings.

When I fail to reach for the proffered garment Mom realizes that something is wrong. Well–at least she senses some resistance.

“Sweetheart, what is wrong?” she asks with concern.

“That’s a skirt,” I point out the obvious.

“And that is a problem because...?” she starts.

“I don’t know!” I express in frustration. “But it doesn’t seem right.”

“Sweetheart, look in the mirror,” she says patiently. “What do you see?”

“I see a cute girl that could be Laurie’s younger sister,” I observe.

“Don’t you think that she would look good in this skirt?” she asks.

“I guess so,” I relent.

“Why don’t you let her put it on?” Mom asks gently. "She needs your help."  She seems to realize that I haven’t made the full connection yet.

“Ah… you want me to put a skirt on a girl?,” I respond. The anxiety level is moving up again.

“Sweetheart, you are going to need to make the connection that you are that girl. The rules have changed for you. I know that you did not ask for this but you have been traded to the 'other team'. It is similar to what happens to ball players all the time. You need to accept the new uniform and integrate into the new team culture. You need to act as if you are not going to be traded back anytime soon–if ever.”

I have to send THAT idea to brain central for immediate processing whether it likes it or not. The message that comes back is: 'this request will receive the highest priority, in the mean time, just do what you are told. Probability analysis indicates that following orders from Mom currently has the best chance for keeping out of trouble and surviving this ordeal/nightmare.'

“I’ll have to work on that idea,” is what comes out of my mouth as I start to remove the jeans, still avoiding looking down or in the mirror.