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What kind of man am I?

November 03, 2003 ~ 4:59 p.m.

So how was everyone�s Halloween? Mine was horrific and humiliating, thanks. In fact, the real horror and humiliation is only just about to begin. I have put off posting this entry for reasons that will fast become apparent to you. But I must uphold my end of the deal.

What deal, you ask?

On Thursday, the wife and I went to our local fitness center to play a game of badminton. On the way there, my wife started trash-talking, saying how she would kick my butt and all that.

�It�s all very well for you to gloat about things that won�t happen,� I said. �Wishful thinking, hon.�

�How�d you like to make a bet?� she asked. �If you lose, you have to dress up.�

�What do you mean, �dress up?�� I asked wearily.

�Cross-dress,� she replied. �In my clothes.�

�OK,� I said. �Deal.�

�Not yet,� she said. �And I get to take a picture of you, and you�ll post it on Diaryland.�

�Now wait a minute �!�

�What�s the matter?� she asked. �Afraid of losing?

I gulped, but did not back down. �You�re on,� I grumbled.

So we played. There are not a whole lot of athletic activities that my wife could hope to compete with me at. But badminton is one of them. I am a very good badminton player; but she is excellent. Her days as an elementary school gymnast come flooding back every time she steps onto the court. It was a tight game down to the last match, but she totally caught me off-guard with a stunning backhanded shot. The birdie shot past my racket. I lost.

Defeat. I had to face it. I had an idea that she would just make me wear one of her skirts and a pair of high-heels. But, no. I should have known better. When we got home, she pulled out a leather mini-skirt, a pair of black nylons, knee high leather boots and a blouse.

�No!� I said. �Forget it!�

�You wear this or I�ll never play with you again,� she said.

I didn�t know whether or not she was kidding, but now I was looking like a sore loser. I�d made a deal, and what kind of man would I be in her eyes if I didn�t accept my punishment?

For the next hour, I suffered the indignant torture of being instructed on how to put on pantyhose without laddering them and how to apply mascara. When I showered, she told me to use the curl-enhancing shampoo and the diffuser on the hair dryer. Then she added a bit of rouge. I was already weak from embarrassment and about to drop from it.

But it wasn�t over. She grabbed the Polaroid, told me to stand by living room window and took the shot. I had to not only look at it, but scan it and add it to my Diaryland server.

�Now�post it,� she instructed.

So, dear reader, here is the result of that horrible night:

Folks, this took extreme bravery. I hope you appreciate it. Now I�m going to go hide under the bed for a week.

Hope you�re happy, hon.

� M.E.M.

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Copyright � 2001-2007 by M.E. Manning. All material is written by me, unless explicitly stated otherwise by use of footnotes or bylines. Do not copy or redistribute without my permission.

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