There’s a red, blue, and gold Wonder Woman costume hanging in my closet year round. It’s the Deluxe package – you know, the one that comes with covers to slide over my thigh-high boots and a gold belt to tie around my waist and a tiara to wear atop my hair that’s not nearly as ink-black the real Wonder Woman’s.
I have a plastic drawstring bag stuffed with halos, three different headbands with devil horns – one that’s sparkly, one that’s stiff and spiky, and one that’s made of red pleather – and tails of various species.
Crinolines in various colors – white, pink, and one in red that is made of so much layered tulle that it takes up a remarkable amount of space – sit on a high shelf. I smile every time I see them with such genuine happiness that you’d think I was a frustrated ballerina, an insane person, or President of The National Tulle Fetish Club, a thing I’m not sure actually exists, but there are some strange fucking people in this world so I wouldn’t be too surprised.