I’ve entertained the idea that perhaps I shouldn’t show off my ruffles. That I shouldn’t prominently display something so personal about myself. Does my blushing pinkness scream hopeless romantic? It’s really not my fault that I publicly showcase something so private. The fashion designer who once fantasized what I might look like had a purpose. The subtle notion of my resemblance to the female reproductive system was no accident. He knew I would attract the right girl with the right bank account. What he didn’t dream of is the lack of individuality from one pink lady to the next. I’ve spent the majority of my adult life hung out to look like all the other ladies on the rack. What I hope, what I dream, is that the inconspicuous placement of my security piercing is sexy enough to separate me from the others.
Big hair, lots of makeup, chin up, tits out is what they tell us before shipping us on to the next show. My new assignment has me in a showroom with new carpet. Ironic since they keep tailoring us until ours is gone and only our major and minor ruffles show. I hang here like every other place I’ve hung, hoping that someone shows up and finds me attractive enough to put their face through me.
But what is attractive? The socialites who determine what my goodies will bear would cringe if I dared to mention that I long for a tattoo sleeve. Hipster is not in their vocabulary. I don’t necessarily think it’s in mine either since that’s only one more label to bear, but I do think different is beautiful. Don’t you? Okay, so you ride your bike to work and you worry that sporting someone like me might show too much of your girly side. I get it. But now that you know my inner alternative is alive and well, shouldn’t you embrace the frills and take me off this rack so I can show off yours? I promise to do your cleavage justice.