So last night Caroline and Lisa spent the evening with Jenny, face-to-face, no scruffy blokes involved. A massive thank-you to Caroline's sister and her husband for both feeding us and putting up with us, and I hope any cider-fueled headaches will have subsided by now.
As always when I shed the scruffy bloke impersonation I find myself acutely aware of his echoes in my behaviour. Testosterone and a lifetime's conditioning have made it rather difficult to leave all the male traits behind, and I'm constantly thinking "That was such a bloke thing you did there!" at work for example. It's stupid really, it's mostly imaginary and half of what I think is obvious never gets noticed by anyone else, but we all have these things that grip us irrationally from time to time.
Every time I go somewhere in Jenny mode now it feels less like something I have to get ready for and more spontaneous. As real as the scruffy me with Rusty Old Wreck-stained t-shirt sitting typing this. Separating the two could become a problem, one I don't want to have to face. I must remind myself, a woman with a Rusty Old Wreck would be just as grubby after wire-brushing its underside.