While I consider myself feminine (I'm sure my beloved is happy to know that), I don't like furbelows and ruffles and all manner of fussy adornment. A good string of pearls, a nice diamond (thank you, sweetie), and a good haircut are all I really need. Oh, and mascara. And a quality, um, unmentionable undergarment. When a lady reaches a certain age... But when my daughters and I hit the Southern Women's Show, I stumble into another world. Big clunky costume jewelry that almost tempts me. Make up do-overs. Cute shirtless fireman on a stage, dancing to rockin' tunes, all of whom I ogle shamelessly. I wonder if this lipstick is the right shade. Should I buy this wonderful dip mix? Then I return to my senses and buy some great garden snips and a saw. In pink, so my beloved won't be tempted to borrow them. I feel much better. Then I line up some window salesmen to give me bids on new windows for the house. Yes, definitely more myself. I'm almost back to normal when . . . homemade creams grab me. My dry skin says stop and try them. Almost a hundred dollars later, I think I can escape the SWS, feeling as if I've gone over the line into female overload just a bit. For a few hours, it's okay. I'm sure my daughters wonder who the heck this woman is who calls herself their mother for the short time we're traipsing the pink carpet.