Alright, I know the hand-me-up pants from a swiftly thinning Marie-Pierre are currently hugging my bum and giving off hints as to the lacy nature of my underwear.
Granted, my clever collared sweater has gotten a wee bit tight about the fancy new lace bra.
And there's no denying that my shiny patent boots go up to my knees and have an oval heel intended to bring me a surprising chunk closer to six feet.
I hadn't realized this meant that all eyes would be to the center of the room, fixated on every movement out from behind my not-so-wee desk.
I hadn't realized that every second irrelevent word would be directed at me, and would carry that dangerously excited undertone.
Dangerous because it must remain subtle, dangerous because if I mention it then I am Breaking Rules.
I remember these rules.
I remember why I stopped playing the pretty-pants-pretty-sweaters game almost before I'd begun over a decade ago when High School turned out to have nothing to do with education.
It leaves a thin film of dirty all over my hands, and coating the half-uneaten lunchtime remnants on my tongue.
They are paying rapt attention to the things I am saying today, but are not hearing the sentences, the only difference is the ominously quiet way they stare at my mouth as it moves.
I do not feel beautiful right now.
I am wondering how to fix this game without an angry return to doc-boots and torn jeans and cropped hair and a permanent scowl.
It's the scowl that hurts the most, as the rest of the brilliant washes of colour fade from my mind's eye, and I forget the delightful things that had my brain aching to share itself.
Waking up hours before dawn and practicing slow, careful katas, prancing into work with wild horses driving my brain.
Discovering that other people understand about awe, that sometimes that awe is directed at me, no matter how the lady may protest.
Realizing that none of it has left my head, and stringing together these awkward pearls, brings the glowing sky to the forefront.