Mr. Doubtfire

This is one of my former weekly newspaper columns that ran back in February, 2006...

       "I feel pretty.
Oh, so pretty..."

Nope, no matter how many times I try singing that little Broadway number, I
don't think I'll convince myself, much less anyone else that this guy is anything even
close to attractive in a dress.

So why then am I wearing a dress, you might ask? Well, you can thank my
cousin, who has invited me to a Valentine's Day "theme" trivia party, based on popular
Hollywood movie characters.  Her inventive idea of a sense of humor was to invite me
over as Mrs. Doubtfire, the movie character made famous by Robin Williams.

Now, right off the hop I suppose I could have protested just a bit more, but after
stamping my feet and whining for several hours to no avail, I reluctantly rose to the
challenge. My one provision -  I would NOT, will NEVER shave off my mustache. I've
only done that once before, back when I also had a full beard, and regrettably somehow
failed to connect with the notion that the last few days of summer might not be the best
time of year to try sporting a clean-shaven look. Imagine my surprise after the removal,
glancing in the mirror, and discovering that the top half of my face was nicely tanned
from the summer sun; the bottom part looked like I had bobbed for apples in a tub of
talcum powder...

So, for this party, Mrs. Doubtfire would have to live with a furry lip warmer,
which for the record I did at least try to cover with makeup. The bigger challenge was the
costume itself. My wife owned no dress nearly as stretchy as some miracle fabrics claim
to be. I had to go out, in public, and buy one.

To purchase the dress, I drove until I found an out-of-the-way thrift shop in one of
the city suburbs (far enough away from my own neighborhood, almost Alberta actually),
entered, and casually perused a few selections in the plus-size rack. The older volunteer
salesclerk was clearly as uncomfortable as I was in the women's wear section, but she
eventually mustered up the courage to ask me if I needed any assistance. I smiled, and
said that I was picking up a gift for my mother, who just happened to be about my size.
To her credit, you could barely see her eyebrows rise...

We managed to select for "mother" a nice dress, comfortable shoes, and a
brassiere that I had to take the clerk's word for, regarding fit. Leaving the store I drove
back home, but felt a little like I was trying to smuggle opium into Utah. Obeying every
speed limit along the way, I was never before so happy to see the inside of my garage.

A wig and some makeup has completed my outfit. And now here I stand before a
full-length mirror; lime-green, flowered dress; a visible mustache, covered in runny
foundation; men's glasses; a five o'clock shadow. No matter how late it is, at any bar in
the world, this gal won't be looking any better at closing time. I must remember to
properly thank my cousin, when I see her...
 
"I feel pretty..."