Back when I was a man, nothing was better than getting home from a hard day of work, taking off your shoes, your belt, and melting into the couch. Now that I’m forced by my mom to live her life, which means having to work in her office, there are different things I look forward to.
I definitely still can’t wait to kick off my shoes. You don’t know foot pain until you’ve walked around all day in 3 inch heels. The fact that this is expected of women is baffling to me.
I don’t tend to wear a belt anymore, my mom’s hips and butt have made one pretty unnecessary, but of course there’s the belt’s evil cousin I now have to deal with. Yes, the bra. That thing, for all the good it does (mainly keeping my mom’s coworkers from making comments and seeing my nipples), it’s incredibly uncomfortable. Straps digging into my shoulders. The tag in the bag rubbing against my shirt and tickling my back. The feeling of being constrained, like my ti- my, er, chest can’t even breathe. Then the constant adjusting…
UGH, it’s too much. As soon as I walk through the door I wrestle the thing off and throw it in the corner. It’s a wonderful feeling. I hate having these sacks of fat constantly swinging from my chest, but after a day in a bra there’s nothing better than letting them out of their cage.
Then there’s the ultimate female pain. No, not childbirth, not menstruation (though that’s a VERY close second), but the thong. If it was up to me, I wouldn’t even wear one, and I gave quite a fight when my mom said I have to. Apparently she’s very careful to avoid pantie lines, so while I’m at work a thong is a necessity.
“Oh, you won’t even notice it after a few minutes.” She told me. WRONG. Sure, I can forget I’m wearing one, until I move slightly or shift my weight, then I think, “Oh right, I’ve got a strip of butt floss running up my ass.” And worse yet, it doesn’t just run up my ass. It has a tendency to lodge itself into the lips of my… genitals. Very uncomfortable. The hardest part is denying myself the urge to pick it.
So when I come home, right after the bra, my favorite ritual is the removal of the thong. I slide it out of my ass and down my legs and kick it into the hamper.
Then a sit with a glass of wine and try to ignore the fact that I’m stuck in my mom’s body. But of course that’s impossible. Everything, from my voice to the constant moving of hair out of my face to my body’s lack of energy to my mom’s boobs to having to sit to pee. There’s no ignoring that I’m in the body of my mom. But I can even get over that, if I take it day by day. What really sucks, after I’ve gotten home and removed my heels, my bra and my thong, is that tomorrow I know I’ll have to put them all on again.