My wife thinks it's very funny. I obsess too much about my appearance.
Only I really don't. I'm too damn scruffy for my own good. As a bloke, that is. She's amused because I'm obsessing about my appearance as a girl. This isn't what you might expect, it's not obsessing about whether I look girly enough, whether I pass. Hell, I know I'd struggle to pass in a room full of blind people, no, this is different. I really don't care how I look as a bloke so I dress like a slob, but I seem somewhere along the way to have acquired the obsessive nature of a teenage girl when it comes to my female presentation. In short, since I came out to my wife and began crossdressing as an adult I care about how I look, almost for the first time in my life. Which, as someone who didn't care in the slightest how they looked for over three decades, I find funny too.
The saddest part of this is, that as a scruffy bloke, I make a better bloke than I would if I made an effort at it. Being large and fit, faded jeans and a well-used t-shirt bearing the logo of the NHL's finest sit well upon me, far better than suits and ties do. Telling someone you're transgendered when you look like this causes a double-take of epic proportions. It's more than a little unfair that a girl who makes as little effort with her appearance as I do would be pilloried by her peers while I can blend in as one of the lads.