As I am home more now during the day I am watching more television. It’s background noise and doesn’t make me look like a crazy cat lady, talking to Mojo. While I am not a fan of reality television I have started to watch a program whose goal is to find the next drag queen star. This makes me both depressed and hopeful at the same time.
I am depressed in that I feel there is no justice in the world. Women have been raised to spend hours primping to make themselves look attractive and professional while it is acceptable for men to do nothing and yet still be seen as both professional and attractive. Along come these men who slap on a wig, several inches of make-up, fake hips, butts and something called breast plates – which I didn’t know existed until today – and become some of the most stunningly beautiful women I have ever seen. The host of the program is a well known drag queen. In his clothes, he isn’t someone who would call attention to himself but when she comes out dressed she is amazing; a woman who would definitely turn heads. I think it is unfair that men can do this. The flip side is that if some, quite frankly, plain looking men can do this to themselves there must be some hope for me.
I started watching the show because I was curious as to how men could strut down a catwalk in a woman’s bathing suit. Anyone knows there are obvious anatomical differences between men and women, yet these men can dress like that. I have learned this anatomy alteration can be done with, what I assume is the careful, application of duct tape. I have always known that duct tape could be used for a multitude of things but holy cow this is truly an astounding use. Once that secret was revealed I continued to watch to learn how they applied their make-up.
I was happy to learn that in the first season they used the same brand of make-up that I have been using when I dance in the ballroom competitions. I shouldn’t have been surprised in that this brand started as stage make-up. Trust me the product may be the same but the results are the difference between a goddess and a zombie and I am not the one coming out of this looking like Venus. I have spent countless hours and who knows how much money with saleswomen at the cosmetic counter trying to learn how to hide my flaws but to not avail. I can still walk out on a competition floor tanned and made up and look like I was auditioning for a part in Michael Jackson’s Thriller video. That is not the intention at all. I need to find me a drag queen. If they can successfully cover up a five o’clock shadow then the dark circles under my eyes should be a piece of cake. I need a fairy godmother to be transformed into Cinderella on the dance floor and I want her name to be RuPaul.