Femme as mental illness

Or perhaps a symptom of?

Is this what happens when a predilection for fabulous frocks gets mixed with anxiety issues?

The story:
I bought a new pair of cute red flat shoes a little while ago. And today was a good day to first wear them. They look best with jeans, and then, being lazy I throw on an old t-shirt and head out the door, hair still unbrushed.
I figure I'll get a couple of quick chores done down King St before I have to go babysit some Qart.

*shakes head*
Of course, Murphy's Law strikes with a fury.
I run into an old workmate.
And yes, gentler readers, she's gorgeous and a dyke.
I feel dumpy and frumpy, but try valiantly to talk with some zing.

Then I run into a friend, and old friend, and a crush. (Oh the horror, how can one look fabulous and sexy in an old t-shirt that's lost it's shape. I know I don't have the body or chutzpah for it).

Then I chat with a friend of Mr M's, see the old workmate again (make sure it's rubbed in eh), then a friends' girlfriend, and an acquaintance.
Then I run away to hide in the Qart gallery.
After my art-minding shift is over I dash home via the back streets.

Then, of course, remember something I forgot to pick up on King St. *argh*
I have only a few minutes to collect it, but I'll be damned if I'm going out dressed so daggy still.
So out comes a frock, jewellery and heels.
*phew*
For naturally I run into another couple more friends, and then, lo and behold, my first girlfriend.
Oh God.

By now I'm starting to think the Universe is trying to tell me something.
And even a fab fifties frock isn't enough to counteract the weirdness.
For the second time in the day I dash home via back streets, stomach gripped in a queasy band of anxiety.

The moral of this story?
Always be fabulous.
You never know who'll you run into.

My dilemma?
I used to feel totally comfy in jeans and an old t-shirt.
But what slippery slope to hell in heels have I started down now?