The Drag Queen

So I have come to the realization that, at the age of 33, I have no husband, no children, and no prospect of gaining these appendages anytime soon. I don't have life insurance, a pension, nor a pet. I am not a home owner. In fact the only thing I own, beyond the furniture in my bedroom, is a (pretty funky) red toaster. And a set of baking teaspoons. And three wigs. I have reached my early thirties unencumbered with partner or offspring, but I have somehow managed to acquire (and keep) 2 pink wigs and one long blonde one.  And yet I manage to lose my HMRC tax log in code every year. WTF.

I thoroughly blame Deepthi for my completely useless selection of hair. Or, to be more precise, I blame her for the second pink wig. The first was purchased for The Hookers' Ball at Discovery Nightclub in Darwin, circa 2006. I was going for Natalie Portman in 'Closer'. Nobody got it. Although I did manage to pull the winner of Australian Big Brother 2005 with it. Mmmmm hmmmm, nothing but A-Listers. That's my second celebrity pull claim to fame. (The first is from Coronation Street. But I'm waiting til I get really poor with that one and can sell my 'night of deviant passion with well-known Corrie star' to The Sun. Or, more accurately, 'he ate Doritos and then tried to initiate intercourse under a Christmas tree in Salford').

But I digress. The second wig (blonde) was purchased, at great expense, for my 30th 'Sex, Drugs and Rocknroll' party. I decided to be Marianne Faithfull. Once again, nobody got it. The conversation generally went like this:

GUEST: Happy birthday! Who are you?
ME: Marianne Faithfull! (DUH)
GUEST: Who?
ME: You know, she dated Mick Jagger, sang 'The ballad of Lucy Jordan' from the Thelma and Louise soundtrack....
GUEST: Who?

That was fun. I should have copied my friend Ed's example and gone as Ozzy Osborne. EVERYONE knew who he was.

So the third wig is for next weekend - Jem and The Holograms. In writing this post I've come to the realization that I now own more wigs than most drag queens. I could probably advertise my services as the Go To girl for most of Auckland's transvestite needs. It's all Deepthi's fault - what with her talk of corsets and FM heels and huge hair.... this is the last time I allow a drag queen to give me advice on clothes and make-up. I am still recovering from the time I allowed my friend Phil to give me eyeshadow tips when he was going through his 'Miss Pippa' phase and advised me to wear a white base with bright red overlaid at the corners. I thought I looked amazing until a colleague asked me, in a shocked tone of voice, why my eyes were bleeding?

So I was talking to The Physio about classes and told him how The Sonchuation had personified the programs in the following way a few years ago:

BODYPUMP – Raoul Moat. Sounds extreme, but she said she feels like it is a mean, threatening program, who is going to shoot you if you don’t lift the weight it orders.

BODYATTACK – the jock in the changing room who is thwacking you with a wet towel, daring you to go harder and more energetic.

BODYCOMBAT – Beyonce. Because it’s on your side.

We discussed it further and decided that in fact you could also compare the classes to novels:

BODYPUMP - Moby Dick. It's hard, and nobody really wants to do it.

BODYCOMBAT - The Emperor's New Clothes. You're dressed like a fighter but you're not actually hitting anything except air.

BODYATTACK - something that requires a very short attention span. And brightly coloured pictures. Like The Hungry Caterpillar.

That was Friday afternoon in the office.

I wish to end with triumphant news: I may work in a fitness office; I may be surrounded by Elite Athletes and encounter bowls of fruit and nuts at every turn; it might be more normal to see the legal team in spandex rather than suits... but I have still managed to instate the BBC tradition of The Chocolate Drawer. I suspect this is rather frowned upon from up high, but I refuse to bow to the (Paleo) pressure. Screw you and your clean diet and your sugar free superiority! I am going to eat this pain au chocolat and I refuse to hide! I WILL NOT BE BEATEN!!

That, of course, is a complete lie. I hide in Centro 3 to eat my cinnamon brioche.

(Please don't tell anybody).